A RESIDENCE IN FRANCE,
DURING THE YEARS
1792, 1793, 1794, and 1795
DESCRIBED IN A SERIES OF LETTERS
FROM AN ENGLISH LADY;
With General And Incidental Remarks
On The French Character And Manners.
Prepared for the Press
By John Gifford, Esq.
| TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: The original 1797 volumes used the long-S which is difficult for us to read. In this html file the long-S has been retained. [The main html file with the long-S converted to a normal small-s may be viewed by clicking on this line.] |
Second Edition.
Plus je vis l'Etranger plus j'aimai ma Patrie.
--Du Belloy.
London: Printed for T. N. Longman, Paternoster Row. 1797.
SAMPLE PAGES FROM THE SECOND VOLUME
CONTENTS
[PRELIMINARY REMARKS BY THE EDITOR.]
[Maison d'Arret, Arras, Oct. 15, 1793.]
[Maison d'Arret, Arras, Oct. 17, 1793.]
[Bicetre at Amiens, Nov. 18, 1793.]
[Amiens, Providence, Dec. 10, 1793.]
[Beginning of Volume II. Of The Printed Books]
PRELIMINARY REMARKS BY THE EDITOR.
The following Letters were ſubmitted to my inſpection and judgement by the Author, of whoſe principles and abilities I had reaſon to entertain a very high opinion. How far my judgement has been exerciſed to advantage in enforcing the propriety of introducing them to the public, that public muſt decide. To me, I confeſs, it appeared, that a ſeries of important facts, tending to throw a ſtrong light on the internal ſtate of France, during the moſt important period of the Revolution, could neither prove unintereſting to the general reader, nor indifferent to the future hiſtorian of that momentous epoch; and I conceived, that the oppoſite and judicious reflections of a well-formed and well-cultivated mind, naturally ariſing out of events within the immediate ſcope of its own obſervation, could not in the ſmalleſt degree diminiſh the intereſt which, in my apprehenſion, they are calculated to excite. My advice upon this occaſion was farther influenced by another conſideration. Having traced, with minute attention, the progreſs of the revolution, and the conduct of its advocates, I had remarked the extreme affiduity employed (as well by tranſlations of the moſt violent productions of the Gallic preſs, as by original compoſitions,) to introduce and propagate, in foreign countries, thoſe pernicious principles which have already ſapped the foundation of ſocial order, deſtroyed the happineſs of millions, and ſpread deſolation and ruin over the fineſt country in Europe. I had particularly obſerved the incredible efforts exerted in England, and, I am ſorry to ſay, with too much ſucceſs, for the baſe purpoſe of giving a falſe colour to every action of the perſons exerciſing the powers of government in France; and I had marked, with indignation, the atrociouſ attempt to ſtrip vice of its deformity, to dreſs crime in the garb of virtue, to decorate ſlavery with the ſymbols of freedom, and give to folly the attributes of wiſdom. I had ſeen, with extreme concern, men, whom the lenity, miſtaken lenity, I muſt call it, of our government had reſcued from puniſhment, if not from ruin, buſily engaged in thiſ ſcandalous traffic, and, availing themſelves of their extenſive connections to diffuſe, by an infinite variety of channels, the poiſon of democracy over their native land. In ſhort, I had ſeen the Britiſh preſs, the grand palladium of Britiſh liberty, devoted to the cauſe of Gallic licentiouſneſs, that mortal enemy of all freedom, and even the pure ſtream of Britiſh criticiſm diverted from its natural courſe, and polluted by the peſtilential vapours of Gallic republicaniſm. I therefore deemed it eſſential, by an exhibition of well-authenticated facts, to correct, as far as might be, the evil effects of miſrepreſentation and error, and to defend the empire of truth, which had been aſſailed by a hoſt of foes.
My opinion of the principles on which the preſent ſyſtem of government in France was founded, and the war to which thoſe principles gave riſe, have been long ſince ſubmitted to the public. Subſequent events, far from invalidating, have ſtrongly confirmed it. In all the public declarationſ of the Directory, in their domeſtic polity, in their conduct to foreign powers, I plainly trace the prevalence of the ſame principles, the ſame contempt for the rights and happineſs of the people, the ſame ſpirit of aggreſſion and aggrandizement, the ſame eagerneſs to overturn the exiſting inſtitutions of neighbouring ſtates, and the ſame deſire to promote "the univerſal revolution of Europe," which marked the conduct of BRISSOT, LE BRUN, DESMOULINS, ROBESPIERRE, and their diſciples. Indeed, what ſtronger inſtance need be adduced of the continued prevalence of theſe principles, than the promotion to the ſupreme rank in the ſtate, of two men who took an active part in the moſt atrocious proceedings of the Convention at the cloſe of 1792, and at the commencement of the following year?
In all the various conſtitutions which have been ſucceſſively adopted in that devoted country, the welfare of the people has been wholly diſregarded, and while they have been amuſed with the ſhadow of liberty, they have been cruelly deſpoiled of the ſubſtance. Even on the eſtabliſhment of the preſent conſtitution, the one which bore the neareſt reſemblance to a rational ſyſtem, the freedom of election, which had been frequently proclaimed as the very corner-ſtone of liberty, was ſhamefully violated by the legiſlative body, who, in their eagerneſs to perpetuate their own power, did not ſcruple to deſtroy the principle on which it waſ founded. Nor is this the only violation of their own principles. A French writer has aptly obſerved, that "En revolution comme en morale, ce n'eſt que le premier pas qui coute:" thus the executive, in imitation of the legiſlative body, ſeem diſpoſed to render their power perpetual. For though it be expreſſly declared by the 137th article of the 6th title of their preſent conſtitutional code, that the "Directory ſhall be partially renewed by the election of a new member every year," no ſtep towards ſuch election has been taken, although the time preſcribed by the law iſ elapſed.—In a private letter from Paris now before me, written within theſe few days, is the following obſervation on this very circumſtance: "The conſtitution has received another blow. The month of Vendemiaire iſ paſt, and our Directors ſtill remain the ſame. Hence we begin to drop the appalation of Directory, and ſubſtitute that of the Cinqvir, who are more to be dreaded for their power, and more to be deteſted for their crimes, than the Decemvir of ancient Rome." The ſame letter alſo contains a brief abſtract of the ſtate of the metropolis of the French republic, which is wonderfully characteriſtic of the attention of the government to the welfare and happineſs of its inhabitantſ!
"The reign of miſery and of crime ſeems to be perpetuated in thiſ diſtracted capital: ſuicides, pillage, and aſſaſſinations, are daily committed, and are ſtill ſuffered to paſs unnoticed. But what renderſ our ſituation ſtill more deplorable, is the exiſtence of an innumerable band of ſpies, who infeſt all public places, and all private ſocieties. More than a hundred thouſand of theſe men are regiſtered on the books of the modern SARTINE; and as the population of Paris, at moſt, does not exceed ſix hundred thouſand ſouls, we are ſure to find in ſix individualſ one ſpy. This conſideration makes me ſhudder, and, accordingly, all confidence, and all the ſweets of ſocial intercourſe, are baniſhed from among us. People ſalute each other, look at each other, betray mutual ſuſpicions, obſerve a profound ſilence, and part. This, in few words, iſ an exact deſcription of our modern republican parties. It is ſaid, that poverty has compelled many reſpectable perſons, and even ſtate-creditors, to enliſt under the ſtandard of COCHON, (the Police Miniſter,) becauſe ſuch is the honourable conduct of our ſovereigns, that they pay their ſpies in ſpecie—and their ſoldiers, and the creditors of the ſtate, in paper.—Such is the morality, ſuch the juſtice, ſuch are the republican virtues, ſo loudly vaunted by our good and deareſt friends, our penſionerſ—the Gazetteers of England and Germany!"
There is not a ſingle abuſe, which the modern reformers reprobated ſo loudly under the ancient ſyſtem, that is not magnified, in an infinite degree, under the preſent eſtabliſhment. For one Lettre de Cachet iſſued during the mild reign of LOUIS the Sixteenth, a thouſand Mandats d'Arret have been granted by the tyrannical demagogues of the revolution; for one Baſtile which exiſted under the Monarchy, a thouſand Maiſons de Detention have been eſtabliſhed by the Republic. In ſhort, crimes of every denomination, and acts of tyranny and injuſtice, of every kind, have multiplied, ſince the abolition of royalty, in a proportion which ſetſ all the powers of calculation at defiance.
It is ſcarcely poſſible to notice the preſent ſituation of France, without adverting to the circumſtances of the WAR, and to the attempt now making, through the medium of negotiation, to bring it to a ſpeedy concluſion. Since the publication of my Letter to a Noble Earl, now deſtined to chew the cud of diſappointment in the vale of obſcurity, I have been aſtoniſhed to hear the ſame aſſertions advance, by the memberſ and advocates of that party whoſe merit is ſaid to conſiſt in the violence of their oppoſition to the meaſures of government, on the origin of the war, which had experienced the moſt ample confutation, without the aſſiſtance of any additional reaſon, and without the ſmalleſt attempt to expoſe the invalidity of thoſe proofs which, in my conception, amounted nearly to mathematical demonſtration, and which I had dared them, in terms the moſt pointed, to invalidate. The queſtion of aggreſſion before ſtood on ſuch high ground, that I had not the preſumption to ſuppoſe it could derive an acceſſion of ſtrength from any arguments which I could ſupply; but I was confident, that the authentic documents which I offered to the public would remove every intervening object that tended to obſtruct the fight of inattentive obſervers, and reflect on it ſuch an additional light as would flaſh inſtant conviction on the minds of all. It ſeems, I have been deceived; but I muſt be permitted to ſuggeſt, that men who perſiſt in the renewal of aſſertions, without a ſingle effort to controvert the proofs which have been adduced to demonſtrate their fallacy, cannot have for their object the eſtabliſhment of truth—which ought, excluſively, to influence the conduct of public characters, whether writers or orators.
With regard to the negotiation, I can derive not the ſmalleſt hopes of ſucceſs from a contemplation of the paſt conduct, or of the preſent principles, of the government of France. When I compare the projects of aggrandizement openly avowed by the French rulers, previous to the declaration of war againſt this country, with the exorbitant pretenſionſ advanced in the arrogant reply of the Executive Directory to the note preſented by the Britiſh Envoy at Baſil in the month of February, 1796, and with the more recent obſervations contained in their official note of the 19th of September laſt, I cannot think it probable that they will accede to any terms of peace that are compatible with the intereſt and ſafety of the Allies. Their object is not ſo much the eſtabliſhment aſ the extenſion of their republic.
As to the danger to be incurred by a treaty of peace with the republic of France, though it has been conſiderably diminiſhed by the events of the war, it is ſtill unqueſtionably great. This danger principally ariſeſ from a pertinacious adherence, on the part of the Directory, to thoſe very principles which were adopted by the original promoters of the abolition of Monarchy in France. No greater proof of ſuch adherence need be required than their refuſal to repeal thoſe obnoxious decrees (paſſed in the months of November and December, 1792,) which created ſo general and ſo juſt an alarm throughout Europe, and which excited the reprobation even of that party in England, which was willing to admit the equivocal interpretation given to them by the Executive Council of the day. I proved, in the Letter to a Noble Earl before alluded to, from the very teſtimony of the members of that Council themſelves, as exhibited in their official inſtructions to one of their confidential agents, that the interpretation which they had aſſigned to thoſe decrees, in their communications with the Britiſh Miniſtry, was a baſe interpretation, and that they really intended to enforce the decrees, to the utmoſt extent of their poſſible operation, and, by a literal conſtruction thereof, to encourage rebellion in every ſtate, within the reach of their arms or their principles. Nor have the preſent government merely forborne to repeal thoſe deſtructive lawſ—they have imitated the conduct of their predeceſſors, have actually put them in execution wherever they had the ability to do ſo, and have, in all reſpects, as far as related to thoſe decrees, adopted the preciſe ſpirit and principles of the faction which declared war againſt England. Let any man read the inſtructions of the Executive Council to PUBLICOLA CHAUSSARD, their Commiſſary in the Netherlands, in 1792 and 1793, and an account of the proceedings in the Low Countries conſequent thereon, and then examine the conduct of the republican General, BOUNAPARTE, in Italy—who muſt neceſſarily act from the inſtructions of the Executive Directory——and he will be compelled to acknowledge the juſtice of my remark, and to admit that the latter actuated by the ſame pernicious deſire to overturn the ſettled order of ſociety, which invariably marked the conduct of the former.
"It is an acknowledged fact, that every revolution requires a proviſional power to regulate its diſorganizing movements, and to direct the methodical demolition of every part of the ancient ſocial conſtitution.— Such ought to be the revolutionary power.
"To whom can ſuch power belong, but to the French, in thoſe countrieſ into which they may carry their arms? Can they with ſafety ſuffer it to be exerciſed by any other perſons? It becomes the French republic, then, to aſſume this kind of guardianſhip over the people whom ſhe awakens to Liberty!*"
* Conſiderations Generales fur l'Eſprit et les Principes du Decret du 15 Decembre.
Such were the Lacedaemonian principles avowed by the French government in 1792, and ſuch is the Lacedaimonian policy* purſued by the French government in 1796! It cannot then, I conceive, be contended, that a treaty with a government ſtill profeſſing principles which have been repeatedly proved to be ſubverſive of all ſocial order, which have been acknowledged by their parents to have for their object the methodical demolition of exiſting conſtitutions, can be concluded without danger or riſk. That danger, I admit, is greatly diminiſhed, becauſe the power which was deſtined to carry into execution thoſe gigantic projects which conſtituted its object, has, by the operations of the war, been conſiderably curtailed. They well may exiſt in equal force, but the ability is no longer the ſame.
MACHIAVEL juſtly obſerves, that it was the narrow policy of the Lacedaemonians always to deſtroy the ancient conſtitution, and eſtabliſh their own form of government, in the counties and cities which they ſubdued.
But though I maintain the exiſtence of danger in a Treaty with the Republic of France, unleſs ſhe previouſly repeal the decrees to which I have adverted, and abrogate the acts to which they have given birth, I by no means contend that it exiſts in ſuch a degree as to juſtify a determination, on the part of the Britiſh government, to make its removal the ſine qua non of negotiation, or peace. Greatly as I admire the brilliant endowments of Mr. BURKE, and highly as I reſpect and eſteem him for the manly and deciſive part which he has taken, in oppoſition to the deſtructive anarchy of republican France, and in defence of the conſtitutional freedom of Britain; I cannot either agree with him on thiſ point, or concur with him in the idea that the reſtoration of the Monarchy of France was ever the object of the war. That the Britiſh Miniſters ardently deſired that event, and were earneſt in their endeavours to promote it, is certain; not becauſe it was the object of the war, but becauſe they conſidered it as the beſt means of promoting the object of the war, which was, and is, the eſtabliſhment of the ſafety and tranquillity of Europe, on a ſolid and permanent baſis. If that object can be attained, and the republic exiſt, there is nothing in the paſt conduct and profeſſions of the Britiſh Miniſters, that can interpoſe an obſtacle to the concluſion of peace. Indeed, in my apprehenſion, it would be highly impolitic in any Miniſter, at the commencement of a war, to advance any ſpecific object, that attainment of which ſhould be declared to be the ſine qua non of peace. If mortals could arrogate to themſelves the attributes of the Deity, if they could direct the courſe of events, and controul the chances of war, ſuch conduct would be juſtifiable; but on no other principle, I think, can its defence be undertaken. It is, I grant, much to be lamented, that the protection offered to the friends of monarchy in France, by the declaration of the 29th of October, 1793, could not be rendered effectual: as far as the offer went it was certainly obligatory on the party who made it; but it was merely conditional—reſtricted, as all ſimilar offers neceſſarily muſt be, by the ability to fulfil the obligation incurred.
In paying this tribute to truth, it is not my intention to retract, in the ſmalleſt degree, the opinion I have ever profeſſed, that the reſtoration of the ancient monarchy of France would be the beſt poſſible means not only of ſecuring the different ſtates of Europe from the dangers of republican anarchy, but of promoting the real intereſts, welfare, and happineſs of the French people themſelves. The reaſons on which this opinion is founded I have long ſince explained; and the intelligence which I have ſince received from France, at different times, has convinced me that a very great proportion of her inhabitants concur in the ſentiment.
The miſeries reſulting from the eſtabliſhment of a republican ſyſtem of government have been ſeverely felt, and deeply deplored; and I am fully perſuaded, that the ſubjects and tributaries of France will cordially ſubſcribe to the following obſervation on republican freedom, advanced by a writer who had deeply ſtudied the genius of republics: "Di tutte le fervitu dure, quella e duriſſima, che ti ſottomette ad una republica; l'una, perche e la piu durabile, e manco ſi puo ſperarne d'ufare: L'altra perche il fine della republica e enervare ed indebolire, debolire, per accreſcere il corpo ſuo, tutti gli altri corpi.*"
JOHN GIFFORD. London, Nov. 12, 1796.
* Diſcorſi di Nicoli Machiavelli, Lib. ii. p. 88.
P.S. Since I wrote the preceding remarks, I have been given to underſtand, that by a decree, ſubſequent to the completion of the conſtitutional code, the firſt partial renewal of the Executive Directory was deferred till the month of March, 1979; and that, therefore, in thiſ inſtance, the preſent Directory cannot be accuſed of having violated the conſtitution. But the guilt is only to be tranſferred from the Directory to the Convention, who paſſed that decree, as well as ſome others, in contradiction to a poſitive conſtitutional law.——-Indeed, the Directory themſelves betrayed no greater delicacy with regard to the obſervance of the conſtitution, or M. BARRAS would never have taken his ſeat among them; for the conſtitution expreſſly ſays, (and this poſitive proviſion was not even modified by any ſubſequent mandate of the Convention,) that no man ſhall be elected a member of the Directory who has not completed his fortieth year—whereas it is notorious that Barras had not thiſ requiſite qualification, having been born in the year 1758!
I avail myſelf of the opportunity afforded me by the publication of a Second Edition to notice ſome inſinuations which have been thrown out, tending to queſtion the authenticity of the work. The motives which have induced the author to withhold from theſe Letters the ſanction of her name, relate not to herſelf, but to ſome friends ſtill remaining in France, whoſe ſafety ſhe juſtly conceives might be affected by the diſcloſure. Acceding to the force and propriety of theſe motives, yet aware of the ſuſpicions to which a recital of important facts, by an anonymous writer, would naturally be expoſed, and ſenſible, alſo, that a certain deſcription of critics would gladly avail themſelves of any opportunity for diſcouraging the circulation of a work which contained principles hoſtile to their own; I determined to prefix my name to the publication. By ſo doing, I conceived that I ſtood pledged for itſ authenticity; and the matter has certainly been put in a proper light by an able and reſpectable critic, who has obſerved that "Mr. GIFFORD ſtandſ between the writer and the public," and that "his name and character are the guarantees for the authenticity of the Letters."
This is preciſely the ſituation in which I meant to place myſelf— preciſely the pledge which I meant to give. The Letters are exactly what they profeſs to be; the production of a Lady's pen, and written in the very ſituations which they deſcribe.—The public can have no grounds for ſuſpecting my veracity on a point in which I can have no poſſible intereſt in deceiving them; and thoſe who know me will do me the juſtice to acknowledge, that I have a mind ſuperior to the arts of deception, and that I am incapable of ſanctioning an impoſition, for any purpoſe, or from any motives whatever. Thus much I deemed it neceſſary to ſay, aſ well from a regard for my own character, and from a due attention to the public, as from a wiſh to prevent the circulation of the work from being ſubjected to the impediments ariſing from the prevalence of a groundleſſ ſuſpicion.
I naturally expected, that ſome of the preceding remarks would excite the reſentment and draw down the vengeance of thoſe perſons to whom they evidently applied. The contents of every publication are certainly a fair ſubject for criticiſm; and to the fair comments of real critics, however repugnant to the ſentiments I entertain, or the doctrine I ſeek to inculcate, I ſhall ever ſubmit without murmur or reproach. But, when men, aſſuming that reſpectable office, openly violate all the dutieſ attached to it, and, ſinking the critic in the partizan, make a wanton attack on my veracity, it becomes proper to repel the injuriouſ imputation; and the ſame ſpirit which dictates ſubmiſſion to the candid award of an impartial judge, preſcribes indignation and ſcorn at the cowardly attacks of a ſecret aſſaſſin.
April 14, 1797.
RESIDENCE IN FRANCE
DEDICATION
To The RIGHT HON. EDMUND BURKE.
SIR,
It is with extreme diffidence that I offer the following pages to Your notice; yet as they deſcribe circumſtances which more than juſtify Your own prophetic reflections, and are ſubmitted to the public eye from no other motive than a love of truth and my country, I may, perhaps, be excuſed for preſuming them to be not altogether unworthy of ſuch a diſtinction.
While Your puny opponents, if opponents they may be called, are either ſunk into oblivion, or remembered only as aſſociated with the degrading cauſe they attempted to ſupport, every true friend of mankind, anticipating the judgement of poſterity, views with eſteem and veneration the unvarying Moraliſt, the profound Politician, the indefatigable Servant of the Public, and the warm Promoter of his country's happineſs.
To this univerſal teſtimony of the great and good, permit me, Sir, to join my humble tribute; being, with the utmoſt reſpect,
SIR,
Your obedient Servant, THE AUTHOR. Sept. 12, 1796.
PREFACE
After having, more than once, in the following Letters, expreſſed opinions decidedly unfavourable to female authorſhip, when not juſtified by ſuperior talents, I may, by now producing them to the public, ſubject myſelf to the imputation either of vanity or inconſiſtency; and I acknowledge that a great ſhare of candour and indulgence muſt be poſſeſſed by readers who attend to the apologies uſually made on ſuch occaſions: yet I may with the ſtricteſt truth alledge, that I ſhould never have ventured to offer any production of mine to the world, had I not conceived it poſſible that information and reflections collected and made on the ſpot, during a period when France exhibited a ſtate, of which there is no example in the annals of mankind, might gratify curioſity without the aid of literary embelliſhment; and an adherence to truth, I flattered myſelf, might, on a ſubject of this nature, be more acceptable than brilliancy of thought, or elegance of language. The eruption of a volcano may be more ſcientifically deſcribed and accounted for by the philoſopher; but the relation of the illiterate peaſant who beheld it, and ſuffered from its effects, may not be leſs intereſting to the common hearer.
Above all, I was actuated by the deſire of conveying to my countrymen a juſt idea of that revolution which they have been incited to imitate, and of that government by which it has been propoſed to model our own.
Since theſe pages were written, the Convention has nominally been diſſolved, and a new conſtitution and government have ſucceeded, but no real change of principle or actors has taken place; and the ſyſtem, of which I have endeavoured to trace the progreſs, muſt ſtill be conſidered as exiſting, with no other variations than ſuch as have been neceſſarily produced by the difference of time and circumſtances. The people grew tired of maſſacres en maſſe, and executions en detail: even the national fickleneſs operated in favour of humanity; and it was alſo diſcovered, that however a ſpirit of royaliſm might be ſubdued to temporary inaction, it was not to be eradicated, and that the ſufferings of its martyrs only tended to propagate and confirm it. Hence the ſcaffolds flow leſſ frequently with blood, and the barbarous prudence of CAMILLE DESMOULINS' guillotine economique has been adopted. But exaction and oppreſſion are ſtill practiſed in every ſhape, and juſtice is not leſs violated, nor iſ property more ſecure, than when the former was adminiſtered by revolutionary tribunals, and the latter was at the diſpoſition of revolutionary armies.
The error of ſuppoſing that the various parties which have uſurped the government of France have differed eſſentially from each other is pretty general; and it is common enough to hear the revolutionary tyranny excluſively aſſociated with the perſon of ROBESPIERRE, and the thirty-firſt of May, 1793, conſidered as the epoch of its introduction. Yet whoever examines attentively the ſituation and politics of France, from the ſubverſion of the Monarchy, will be convinced that all the principles of this monſtrous government were eſtabliſhed during the adminiſtration of the Briſſotins, and that the factions which ſucceeded, from Danton and Robeſpierre to Sieyes and Barras, have only developed them, and reduced them to practice. The revolution of the thirty-firſt of May, 1793, was not a conteſt for ſyſtem but for power—that of July the twenty-eighth, 1794, (9th Thermidor,) was merely a ſtruggle which of two parties ſhould ſacrifice the other—that of October the fifth, 1795, (13th Vendemiaire,) a war of the government againſt the people. But in all theſe convulſions, the primitive doctrines of tyranny and injuſtice were watched like the ſacred fire, and have never for a moment been ſuffered to languiſh.
It may appear incredible to thoſe who have not perſonally witneſſed thiſ phoenomenon, that a government deteſted and deſpiſed by an immenſe majority of the nation, ſhould have been able not only to reſiſt the efforts of ſo many powers combined againſt it, but even to proceed from defence to conqueſt, and to mingle ſurprize and terror with thoſe ſentiments of contempt and abhorrence which it originally excited.
That wiſdom or talents are not the ſources of this ſucceſs, may be deduced from the ſituation of France itſelf. The armies of the republic have, indeed, invaded the territories of its enemies, but the deſolation of their own country ſeems to increaſe with every triumph—the genius of the French government appears powerful only in deſtruction, and inventive only in oppreſſion—and, while it is endowed with the faculty of ſpreading univerſal ruin, it is incapable of promoting the happineſs of the ſmalleſt diſtrict under its protection. The unreſtrained pillage of the conquered countries has not ſaved France from multiplied bankruptcies, nor her ſtate-creditors from dying through want; and the French, in the midſt of their external proſperity, are often diſtinguiſhed from the people whom their armies have been ſubjugated, only by a ſuperior degree of wretchedneſs, and a more irregular deſpotiſm.
With a power exceſſive and unlimited, and ſurpaſſing what has hitherto been poſſeſſed by any Sovereign, it would be difficult to prove that theſe democratic deſpots have effected any thing either uſeful or beneficent. Whatever has the appearance of being ſo will be found, on examination, to have for its object ſome purpoſe of individual intereſt or perſonal vanity. They manage the armies, they embelliſh Paris, they purchaſe the friendſhip of ſome ſtates and the neutrality of others; but if there be any real patriots in France, how little do they appreciate theſe uſeleſs triumphs, theſe pilfered muſeums, and theſe fallaciouſ negotiations, when they behold the population of their country diminiſhed, its commerce annihilated, its wealth diſſipated, its moralſ corrupted, and its liberty deſtroyed—
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"Thus, on deceitful Aetna's Flow'ry ſide Unfading verdure glads the roving eye, While ſecret flames with unextinguiſh'd rage Inſatiate on her wafted entrails prey, And melt her treach'rous beauties into ruin." |
Thoſe efforts which the partizans of republicaniſm admire, and which even well-diſpoſed perſons regard as prodigies, are the ſimple and natural reſult of an unprincipled deſpotiſm, acting upon, and diſpoſing of, all the reſources of a rich, populous, and enſlaved nation. "Il devient aiſe d'etre habile lorſqu'on ſ'eſt delivre des ſcrupules et des loix, de tout honneur et de toute juſtice, des droits de ſes ſemblables, et des devoirſ de l'autorite—a ce degre d'independence la plupart des obſtacles qui modifient l'activite humaine diſparaiſſent; l'on parait avoir du talent lorſqu'on n'a que de l'impudence, et l'abus de la force paſſe pour energie.*"
* "Exertions of ability become eaſy, when men have releaſed themſelves from the ſcruples of conſcience, the reſtraints of law, the ties of honour, the bonds of juſtice, the claims of their fellow creatures, and obedience to their ſuperiors:—at this point of independence, moſt of the obſtacles which modify human activity diſappear; impudence is miſtaken for talents; and the abuſe of power paſſes for energy."
The operations of all other governments muſt, in a great meaſure, be reſtrained by the will of the people, and by eſtabliſhed laws; with them, phyſical and political force are neceſſarily ſeparate conſiderations: they have not only to calculate what can be borne, but what will be ſubmitted to; and perhaps France is the firſt country that has been compelled to an exertion of its whole ſtrength, without regard to any obſtacle, natural, moral, or divine. It is for want of ſufficiently inveſtigating and allowing for this moral and political latitudinarianiſm of our enemies, that we are apt to be too precipitate in cenſuring the conduct of the war; and, in our eſtimation of what has been done, we pay too little regard to the principles by which we have been directed. An honeſt man could ſcarcely imagine the means we have had to oppoſe, and an Engliſhman ſtill leſs conceive that they would have been ſubmitted to: for the ſame reaſon that the Romans had no law againſt parricide, till experience had evinced the poſſibility of the crime.
In a war like the preſent, advantage is not altogether to be appreciated by military ſuperiority. If, as there is juſt ground for believing, our external hoſtilities have averted an internal revolution, what we have eſcaped is of infinitely more importance to us than what we could acquire. Commerce and conqueſt, compared to this, are ſecondary objects; and the preſervation of our liberties and our conſtitution is a more ſolid bleſſing than the commerce of both the Indies, or the conqueſt of nations.
Should the following pages contribute to impreſs this ſalutary truth on my countrymen, my utmoſt ambition will be gratified; perſuaded, that a ſenſe of the miſeries they have avoided, and of the happineſs they enjoy, will be their beſt incentive, whether they may have to oppoſe the arms of the enemy in a continuance of the war, or their more dangerouſ machinations on the reſtoration of peace.
I cannot conclude without noticing my obligations to the Gentleman whoſe name is prefixed to theſe volumes; and I think it at the ſame time incumbent on me to avow, that, in having aſſiſted the author, he muſt not be conſidered as ſanctioning the literary imperfections of the work. When the ſubject was firſt mentioned to him, he did me the juſtice of ſuppoſing, that I was not likely to have written any thing, the general tendency of which he might diſapprove; and when, on peruſing the manuſcript, he found it contain ſentiments diſſimilar to his own, he waſ too liberal to require a ſacrifice of them as the condition of hiſ ſervices.—I confeſs that previous to my arrival in France in 1792, I entertained opinions ſomewhat more favourable to the principle of the revolution than thoſe which I was led to adopt at a ſubſequent period. Accuſtomed to regard with great juſtice the Britiſh conſtitution as the ſtandard of known political excellence, I hardly conceived it poſſible that freedom or happineſs could exiſt under any other: and I am not ſingular in having ſuffered this prepoſſeſſion to invalidate even the evidence of my ſenſes. I was, therefore, naturally partial to whatever profeſſed to approach the object of my veneration. I forgot that governments are not to be founded on imitations or theories, and that they are perfect only as adapted to the genius, manners, and diſpoſition of the people who are ſubject to them. Experience and maturer judgement have corrected my error, and I am perfectly convinced, that the old monarchical conſtitution of France, with very ſlight meliorations, waſ every way better calculated for the national character than a more popular form of government.
A critic, though not very ſevere, will diſcover many faults of ſtyle, even where the matter may not be exceptionable. Beſides my other deficiencies, the habit of writing is not eaſily ſupplied, and, as I deſpaired of attaining excellence, and was not ſolicitous about degreeſ of mediocrity, I determined on conveying to the public ſuch information as I was poſſeſſed of, without alteration or ornament. Moſt of theſe Letters were written exactly in the ſituation they deſcribe, and remain in their original ſtate; the reſt were arranged according aſ opportunities were favourable, from notes and diaries kept when "the times were hot and feveriſh," and when it would have been dangerous to attempt more method. I forbear to deſcribe how they were concealed either in France or at my departure, becauſe I might give riſe to the perſecution and oppreſſion of others. But, that I may not attribute to myſelf courage which I do not poſſeſs, nor create doubts of my veracity, I muſt obſerve, that I ſeldom ventured to write till I was aſſured of ſome certain means of conveying my papers to a perſon who could ſafely diſpoſe of them.
As a conſiderable period has elapſed ſince my return, it may not be improper to add, that I took ſome ſteps for the publication of theſe Letters ſo early as July, 1795. Certain difficulties, however, ariſing, of which I was not aware, I relinquiſhed my deſign, and ſhould not have been tempted to reſume it, but for the kindneſs of the Gentleman whoſe name appears as the Editor.
Sept. 12, 1796.
A RESIDENCE IN FRANCE.
May 10, 1792.
I am every day more confirmed in the opinion I communicated to you on my arrival, that the firſt ardour of the revolution is abated.—The bridal days are indeed paſt, and I think I perceive ſomething like indifference approaching. Perhaps the French themſelves are not ſenſible of thiſ change; but I who have been abſent two years, and have made as it were a ſudden tranſition from enthuſiaſm to coldneſs, without paſſing through the intermediate gradations, am forcibly ſtruck with it. When I was here in 1790, parties could be ſcarcely ſaid to exiſt—the popular triumph waſ too complete and too recent for intolerance and perſecution, and the Nobleſſe and Clergy either ſubmitted in ſilence, or appeared to rejoice in their own defeat. In fact, it was the confuſion of a deciſive conqueſt—the victors and the vanquiſhed were mingled together; and the one had not leiſure to exerciſe cruelty, nor the other to meditate revenge. Politics had not yet divided ſociety; nor the weakneſs and pride of the great, with the malice and inſolence of the little, thinned the public places. The politics of the women went no farther than a few couplets in praiſe of liberty, and the patriotiſm of the men was confined to an habit de garde nationale, the device of a button, or a nocturnal revel, which they called mounting guard.—Money was yet plenty, at leaſt ſilver, (for the gold had already begun to diſappear,) commerce in itſ uſual train, and, in ſhort, to one who obſerves no deeper than myſelf, every thing ſeemed gay and flouriſhing—the people were perſuaded they were happier; and, amidſt ſuch an appearance of content, one muſt have been a cold politician to have examined too ſtrictly into the future. But all this, my good brother, is in a great meaſure ſubſided; and the diſparity is ſo evident, that I almoſt imagine myſelf one of the ſeven ſleeperſ—and, like them too, the coin I offer is become rare, and regarded more as medals than money. The playful diſtinctions of Ariſtocrate and Democrate are degenerated into the opprobium and bitterneſs of Party—political diſſenſions pervade and chill the common intercourſe of life—the people are become groſs and arbitrary, and the higher claſſes (from a pride which thoſe who conſider the frailty of human nature will allow for) deſert the public amuſements, where they cannot appear but at the riſk of being the marked objects of inſult.—The politics of the women are no longer innoxiouſ—their political principleſ form the leading trait of their characters; and as you know we are often apt to ſupply by zeal what we want in power, the ladies are far from being the moſt tolerant partizans on either ſide.—The national uniform, which contributed ſo much to the ſucceſs of the revolution, and ſtimulated the patriotiſm of the young men, is become general; and the taſk of mounting guard, to which it ſubjects the wearer, is now a ſeriouſ and troubleſome duty.—To finiſh my obſervations, and my contraſt, no Specie whatever is to be ſeen; and the people, if they ſtill idolize their new form of government, do it at preſent with great ſobriety—the Vive la nation! ſeems now rather the effect of habit than of feeling; and one ſeldom hears any thing like the ſpontaneous and enthuſiaſtic ſounds I formerly remarked.
I have not yet been here long enough to diſcover the cauſes of thiſ change; perhaps they may lie too deep for ſuch an obſerver as myſelf: but if (as the cauſes of important effects ſometimes do) they lie on the ſurface, they will be leſs liable to eſcape me, than an obſerver of more pretentions. Whatever my remarks are, I will not fail to communicate them—the employment will at leaſt be agreeable to me, though the reſult ſhould not be ſatiſfactory to you; and as I ſhall never venture on any reflection, without relating the occurrence that gave riſe to it, your own judgement will enable you to correct the errors of mine.
I was preſent yeſterday at a funeral ſervice, performed in honour of General Dillon. This kind of ſervice is common in Catholic countries, and conſiſts in erecting a cenotaph, ornamented with numerous lights, flowers, croſſes, &c. The church is hung with black, and the maſs iſ performed the ſame as if the body were preſent. On account of General Dillon's profeſſion, the maſs yeſterday was a military one. It muſt always, I imagine, ſound ſtrange to the ears of a Proteſtant, to hear nothing but theatrical muſic on theſe occaſions, and indeed I could never reconcile myſelf to it; for if we allow any effect to muſic at all, the train of thought which ſhould inſpire us with reſpect for the dead, and reflections on mortality, is not likely to be produced by the ſtrains in which Dido bewails Eneas, or in which Armida aſſails the virtue of Rinaldo.—I fear, that in general the air of an opera reminds the belle of the Theatre where ſhe heard it—and, by a natural tranſition, of the beau who attended her, and the dreſs of herſelf and her neighbours. I confeſs, this was nearly my own caſe yeſterday, on hearing an air from "Sargines;" and had not the funeral oration reminded me, I ſhould have forgotten the unfortunate event we were celebrating, and which, for ſome days before, when undiſtracted by this pious ceremony, I had dwelt on with pity and horror.*—
* At the firſt ſkirmiſh between the French and Auſtrians near Liſle, a general panic ſeized the former, and they retreated in diſorder to Liſle, crying _"Sauve qui peut, & nous fomnes (ſic) trahis."_--"Let every one ſhift for himſelf—we are betrayed." The General, after in vain endeavouring to rally them, was maſſacred at his return on the great ſquare.—My pen faulters, and refuſes to deſcribe the barbarities committed on the lifeleſs hero. Let it ſuffice, perhapſ more than ſuffice, to ſay, that his mutilated remains were thrown on a fire, which theſe ſavages danced round, with yells expreſſive of their execrable feſtivity. A young Engliſhman, who was ſo unfortunate as to be near the ſpot, was compelled to join in thiſ outrage to humanity.—The ſame day a gentleman, the intimate friend of our acquaintance, Mad. _____, was walking (unconſcious what had happened) without the gate which leads to Douay, and was met by the flying ruffians on their return; immediately on ſeeing him they ſhouted, "Voila encore un Ariſtocrate!" and maſſacred him on the ſpot.
—Independent of any regret for the fate of Dillon, who is ſaid to have been a brave and good officer, I am ſorry that the firſt event of thiſ war ſhould be marked by cruelty and licentiouſneſs.—Military diſcipline has been much relaxed ſince the revolution, and from the length of time ſince the French have been engaged in a land war, many of the troops muſt be without that kind of courage which is the effect of habit. The danger, therefore, of ſuffering them to alledge that they are betrayed, whenever they do not chooſe to fight, and to excuſe their own cowardice by aſcribing treachery to their leaders, is incalculable.—Above all, every infraction of the laws in a country juſt ſuppoſing itſelf become free, cannot be too ſeverely repreſſed. The National Aſſembly have done all that humanity could ſuggeſt—they have ordered the puniſhment of the aſſaſſins, and have penſioned and adopted the General's children. The orator expatiated both on the horror of the act and its conſequences, aſ I ſhould have thought, with ſome ingenuity, had I not been aſſured by a brother orator that the whole was "execrable." But I frequently remark, that though a Frenchman may ſuppoſe the merit of his countrymen to be collectively ſuperior to that of the whole world, he ſeldom allows any individual of them to have ſo large a portion as himſelf.—Adieu: I have already written enough to convince you I have neither acquired the Gallomania, nor forgotten my friends in England; and I conclude with a wiſh a propoſ to my ſubject—that they may long enjoy the rational liberty they poſſeſs and ſo well deſerve.—Yours.
May, 1792.
You, my dear _____, who live in a land of pounds, ſhillings, and pence, can ſcarcely form an idea of our embarraſſments through the want of them. 'Tis true, theſe are petty evils; but when you conſider that they happen every day, and every hour, and that, if they are not very ſerious, they are very frequent, you will rejoice in the ſplendour of your national credit, which procures you all the accommodation of paper currency, without diminiſhing the circulation of ſpecie. Our only currency here conſiſts of aſſignats of 5 livres, 50, 100, 200, and upwards: therefore in making purchaſes, you muſt accommodate your wants to the value of your aſſignat, or you muſt owe the ſhopkeeper, or the ſhopkeeper muſt owe you; and, in ſhort, as an old woman aſſured me to-day, "C'eſt de quoi faire perdre la tete," and, if it laſted long, it would be the death of her. Within theſe few days, however, the municipalities have attempted to remedy the inconvenience, by creating ſmall paper of five, ten, fifteen, and twenty ſols, which they give in exchange for aſſignats of five livres; but the number they are allowed to iſſue is limited, and the demand for them ſo great, that the accommodation is inadequate to the difficulty of procuring it. On the days on which this paper (which iſ called billets de confiance) is iſſued, the Hotel de Ville is beſieged by a hoſt of women collected from all parts of the diſtrict—Peaſants, ſmall ſhopkeepers, fervant maids, and though laſt, not leaſt formidable— fiſhwomen. They uſually take their ſtand two or three hours before the time of delivery, and the interval is employed in diſcuſſing the news, and execrating paper money. But when once the door is opened, a ſcene takes place which bids defiance to language, and calls for the pencil of a Hogarth. Babel was, I dare ſay, comparatively to this, a place of retreat and ſilence. Clamours, revilings, contentions, tearing of hair, and breaking of heads, generally conclude the buſineſs; and, after the loſs of half a day's time, ſome part of their clothes, and the expence of a few bruiſes, the combatants retire with ſmall bills to the value of five, or perhaps ten livres, as the whole reſource to carry on their little commerce for the enſuing week. I doubt not but the paper may have had ſome ſhare in alienating the minds of the people from the revolution. Whenever I want to purchaſe any thing, the vender uſually anſwers my queſtion by another, and with a rueful kind of tone inquires, "En papier, madame?"—and the bargain concludes with a melancholy reflection on the hardneſs of the times.
The decrees relative to the prieſts have likewiſe occaſioned much diſſenſion; and it ſeems to me impolitic thus to have made religion the ſtandard of party. The high maſs, which is celebrated by a prieſt who has taken the oaths, is frequented by a numerous, but, it muſt be confeſſed, an ill-dreſt and ill-ſcented congregation; while the low maſs, which is later, and which is allowed the nonjuring clergy, has a gayer audience, but is much leſs crouded.—By the way, I believe many who formerly did not much diſturb themſelves about religious tenets, have become rigid Papiſts ſince an adherence to the holy ſee has become a criterion of political opinion. But if theſe ſeparatiſts are bigoted and obſtinate, the conventionaliſts on their ſide are ignorant and intolerant.
I enquired my way to-day to the Rue de l'Hopital. The woman I ſpoke to aſked me, in a menacing tone, what I wanted there. I replied, which waſ true, that I merely wanted to paſs through the ſtreet as my neareſt way home; upon which ſhe lowered her voice, and conducted me very civilly.—I mentioned the circumſtance on my return, and found that the nuns of the hoſpital had their maſs performed by a prieſt who had not taken the oaths, and that thoſe who were ſuſpected of going to attend it were inſulted, and ſometimes ill treated. A poor woman, ſome little time ago, who conceived perhaps that her ſalvation might depend on exerciſing her religion in the way ſhe had been accuſtomed to, perſiſted in going, and was uſed by the populace with ſuch a mixture of barbarity and indecency, that her life was deſpaired of. Yet this is the age and the country of Philoſophers.—Perhaps you will begin to think Swift's ſages, who only amuſed themſelves with endeavouring to propagate ſheep without wool, not ſo contemptible. I am almoſt convinced myſelf, that when a man once piques himſelf on being a philoſopher, if he does no miſchief you ought to be ſatiſfied with him.
We paſſed laſt Sunday with Mr. de ____'s tenants in the country. Nothing can equal the avidity of theſe people for news. We ſat down after dinner under ſome trees in the village, and Mr. de _____ began reading the Gazette to the farmers who were about us. In a few minutes every thing that could hear (for I leave underſtanding the pedantry of a French newſpaper out of the queſtion) were his auditors. A party at quoits in one field, and a dancing party in another, quitted their amuſements, and liſtened with undivided attention. I believe in general the farmers are the people moſt contented with the revolution, and indeed they have reaſon to be ſo; for at preſent they refuſe to ſell their corn unleſs for money, while they pay their rent in aſſignats; and farms being for the moſt part on leaſes, the objections of the landlord to this kind of payment are of no avail. Great encouragement is likewiſe held out to them to purchaſe national property, which I am informed they do to an extent that may for ſome time be injurious to agriculture; for in their eagerneſs to acquire land, the deprive themſelves of cultivating it. They do not, like our cruſading anceſtors, "ſell the paſture to buy the horſe," but the horſe to buy the paſture; ſo that we may expect to ſee in many places large farms in the hands of thoſe who are obliged to neglect them.
A great change has happened within the laſt year, with regard to landed property—ſo much has been ſold, that many farmers have had the opportunity of becoming proprietors. The rage of emigration, which the approach of war, pride, timidity, and vanity are daily increaſing, haſ occaſioned many of the Nobleſſe to ſell their eſtates, which, with thoſe of the Crown and the Clergy, form a large maſs of property, thrown as it were into general circulation. This may in future be beneficial to the country, but the preſent generation will perhaps have to purchaſe (and not cheaply) advantages they cannot enjoy. A philanthropiſt may not think of this with regret; and yet I know not why one race is preferable to another, or why an evil ſhould be endured by thoſe who exiſt now, in order that thoſe who ſucceed may be free from it.—I would willingly plant a million of acorns, that another age might be ſupplied with oaks; but I confeſs, I do not think it quite ſo pleaſant for us to want bread, in order that our deſcendants may have a ſuperfluity.
I am half aſhamed of theſe ſelfiſh arguments; but really I have been led to them through mere apprehenſion of what I fear the people may have yet to endure, in conſequence of the revolution.
I have frequently obſerved how little taſte the French have for the country, and I believe all my companions, except Mr. de _____, who took (as one always does) an intereſt in ſurveying his property, were heartily ennuyes with our little excurſion.—Mad. De _____, on her arrival, took her poſt by the farmer's fire-ſide, and was out of humour the whole day, inaſmuch as our fare was homely, and there was nothing but ruſtics to ſee or be ſeen by. That a plain dinner ſhould be a ſerious affair, you may not wonder; but the laſt cauſe of diſtreſs, perhaps you will not conclude quite ſo natural at her years. All that can be ſaid about it is, that ſhe is a French woman, who rouges, and wears lilac ribbons, at ſeventy-four. I hope, in my zeal to obey you, my reflections will not be too voluminous.—For the preſent I will be warned by my conſcience, and add only, that I am, Yours.
June 10, 1792.
You obſerve, with ſome ſurprize, that I make no mention of the Jacobinſ— the fact is, that until now I have heard very little about them. Your Engliſh partizans of the revolution have, by publiſhing their correſpondence with theſe ſocieties, attributed a conſequence to them infinitely beyond what they have had pretenſions to:—a prophet, it iſ ſaid, is not honoured in his own country—I am ſure a Jacobin is not. In provincial towns theſe clubs are generally compoſed of a few of the loweſt tradeſmen, who have ſo diſintereſted a patriotiſm, as to beſtow more attention on the ſtate than on their own ſhops; and as a man may be an excellent patriot without the ariſtocratic talents of reading and writing, they uſually provide a ſecretary or preſident, who can ſupply theſe deficiencieſ—a country attorney, a Pere de l'oratoire, or a diſbanded capuchin, is in moſt places the candidate for this office. The clubs often aſſemble only to read the newſpapers; but where they are ſufficiently in force, they make motions for "fetes," cenſure the municipalities, and endeavour to influence the elections of the memberſ who compoſe them.—That of Paris is ſuppoſed to conſiſt of about ſix thouſand members; but I am told their number and influence are daily increaſing, and that the National Aſſembly is more ſubſervient to them than it is willing to acknowledge—yet, I believe, the people at large are equally adverſe to the Jacobins, who are ſaid to entertain the chimerical project of forming a republic, and to the Ariſtocrates, who wiſh to reſtore the ancient government. The party in oppoſition to both theſe, who are called the Feuillans,* have the real voice of the people with them, and knowing this, they employ leſs art than their opponents, have no point of union, and perhaps may finally be undermined by intrigue, or even ſubdued by violence.
*They derive this appellation, as the Jacobins do theirs, from the convent at which they hold their meetings.
You ſeem not to comprehend why I include vanity among the cauſes of emigration, and yet I aſſure you it has had no ſmall ſhare in many of them. The gentry of the provinces, by thus imitating the higher nobleſſe, imagine they have formed a kind of a common cauſe, which may hereafter tend to equalize the difference of ranks, and aſſociate them with thoſe they have been accuſtomed to look up to as their ſuperiors. It is a kind of ton among the women, particularly to talk of their emigrated relations, with an accent more expreſſive of pride than regret, and which ſeems to lay claim to diſtinction rather than pity.
I muſt now leave you to contemplate the boaſted miſfortunes of theſe belles, that I may join the card party which forms their alleviation.— Adieu.
June 24, 1792.
You have doubtleſs learned from the public papers the late outrage of the Jacobins, in order to force the King to conſent to the formation of an army at Paris, and to ſign the decree for baniſhing the nonjuring Clergy. The newſpapers will deſcribe to you the proceſſion of the Sans-Culottes, the indecency of their banners, and the diſorders which were the reſult— but it is impoſſible for either them or me to convey an idea of the general indignation excited by theſe atrocities. Every well-meaning perſon is grieved for the preſent, and apprehenſive for the future: and I am not without hope, that this open avowal of the deſigns of the Jacobins, will unite the Conſtitutionaliſts and Ariſtocrates, and that they will join their efforts in defence of the Crown, as the only meanſ of ſaving both from being overwhelmed by a faction, who are now become too daring to be deſpiſed. Many of the municipalities and departmentſ are preparing to addreſs they King, on the fortitude he diſplayed in thiſ hour of inſult and peril.—I know not why, but the people have been taught to entertain a mean opinion of his perſonal courage; and the late violence will at leaſt have the good effect of undeceiving them. It iſ certain, that he behaved on this occaſion with the utmoſt coolneſs; and the Garde Nationale, whoſe hand he placed on his heart, atteſted that it had no unuſual palpitation.
That the King ſhould be unwilling to ſanction the raiſing an army under the immediate auſpice of the avowed enemies of himſelf, and of the conſtitution he has ſworn to protect, cannot be much wondered at; and thoſe who know the Catholic religion, and conſider that this Prince iſ devout, and that he has reaſon to ſuſpect the fidelity of all who approach him, will wonder ſtill leſs that he refuſes to baniſh a claſs of men, whoſe influence is extenſive, and whoſe intereſt it is to preſerve their attachment to him.
Theſe events have thrown a gloom over private ſocieties; and public amuſements, as I obſerved in a former letter, are little frequented; ſo that, on the whole, time paſſes heavily with a people who, generally ſpeaking, have few reſources in themſelves. Before the revolution, France was at this ſeaſon a ſcene of much gaiety. Every village had alternately a ſort of Fete, which nearly anſwers to our Wake—but with this difference, that it was numerouſly attended by all ranks, and the amuſement was dancing, inſtead of wreſtling and drinking. Several ſmall fields, or different parts of a large one, were provided with muſic, diſtinguiſhed by flags, and appropriated to the ſeveral claſſes of dancerſ—one for the peaſants, another for the bourgeois, and a third for the higher orders. The young people danced beneath the ardour of a July ſun, while the old looked on and regaled themſelves with beer, cyder, and gingerbread. I was always much pleaſed with this village feſtivity: it gratified my mind more than ſelect and expenſive amuſements, becauſe it was general, and within the power of all who choſe to partake of it; and the little diſtinction of rank which was preſerved, far from diminiſhing the pleaſure of any, added, I am certain, to the freedom of all. By mixing with thoſe only of her own claſs, the Payſanne* was ſpared the temptation of envying the pink ribbons of the Bourgeoiſe, who in her turn was not diſturbed by an immediate rivalſhip with the ſaſh and plumes of the provincial belle. But this cuſtom is now much on the decline. The young women avoid occaſions where an inebriated ſoldier may offer himſelf as her partner in the dance, and her refuſal be attended with inſult to herſelf, and danger to thoſe who protect her; and as this licence iſ nearly as offenſive to the decent Bourgeoiſe as to the female of higher condition, this ſort of fete will moſt probably be entirely abandoned.
*The head-dreſs of the French Payſanne is uniformly a ſmall cap, without ribbon or ornament of any kind, except in that part of Normandy which is called the Pays de Caux, where the Payſanneſ wear a particular kind of head dreſs, ornamented with ſilver.
The people here all dance much better than thoſe of the ſame rank in England; but this national accompliſhment is not inſtinctive: for though few of the laborious claſs have been taught to read, there are ſcarcely any ſo poor as not to beſtow three livres for a quarter's inſtruction from a dancing maſter; and with this three monthſ' noviciate they become qualified to dance through the reſt of their lives.
The rage for emigration, and the approach of the Auſtrians, have occaſioned many reſtrictions on travelling, eſpecially near the ſeacoaſt of frontiers. No perſon can paſs through a town without a paſſport from the municipality he reſides in, ſpecifying his age, the place of hiſ birth, his deſtination, the height of his perſon, and the features of hiſ face. The Marquis de C____ entered the town yeſterday, and at the gate preſented his paſſport as uſual; the guard looked at the paſſport, and in a high tone demanded his name, whence he came, and where he was going. M. de C____ referred him to the paſſport, and ſuſpecting the man could not read, perſiſted in refuſing to give a verbal account of himſelf, but with much civility preſſed the peruſal of the paſſport; adding, that if it was informal, Monſieur might write to the municipality that granted it. The man, however, did not approve of the jeſt, and took the Marquiſ before the municipality, who ſentenced him to a month's impriſonment for his pleaſantry.
The French are becoming very grave, and a bon-mot will not now, aſ formerly, ſave a man's life.—I do not remember to have ſeen in any Engliſh print an anecdote on this ſubject, which at once marks the levity of the Pariſians, and the wit and preſence of mind of the Abbe Maury.—At the beginning of the revolution, when the people were very much incenſed againſt the Abbe, he was one day, on quitting the Aſſembly, ſurrounded by an enraged mob, who ſeized on him, and were hurrying him away to execution, amidſt the univerſal cry of a la lanterne! a la lanterne! The Abbe, with much coolneſs and good humour, turned to thoſe neareſt him, "Eh bien mes amis et quand je ſerois a la lanterne, en verriez vous pluſ clair?" Thoſe who held him were diſarmed, the bon-mot flew through the croud, and the Abbe eſcaped while they were applauding it.—I have nothing to offer after this trait which is worthy of ſucceeding it, but will add that I am always Yours.
July 24, 1792.
Our revolution aera has paſſed tranquilly in the provinces, and with leſſ turbulence at Paris than was expected. I conſign to the Gazette-writerſ thoſe long deſcriptions that deſcribe nothing, and leave the mind aſ unſatiſfied as the eye. I content myſelf with obſerving only, that the ceremony here was gay, impreſſive, and animating. I indeed have often remarked, that the works of nature are better deſcribed than thoſe of art. The ſcenes of nature, though varied, are uniform; while the productions of art are ſubject to the caprices of whim, and the viciſſitudes of taſte. A rock, a wood, or a valley, however the ſcenery may be diverſified, always conveys a perfect and diſtinct image to the mind; but a temple, an altar, a palace, or a pavilion, requires a detail, minute even to tediouſneſs, and which, after all, gives but an imperfect notion of the object. I have as often read deſcriptions of the Vatican, as of the Bay of Naples; yet I recollect little of the former, while the latter ſeems almoſt familiar to me.—Many are ſtrongly impreſſed with the ſcenery of Milton's Paradiſe, who have but confuſed ideas of the ſplendour of Pandemonium. The deſcriptions, however, are equally minute, and the poetry of both is beautiful.
But to return to this country, which is not abſolutely a Paradiſe, and I hope will not become a Pandemonium—the ceremony I have been alluding to, though really intereſting, is by no means to be conſidered as a proof that the ardour for liberty increaſes: on the contrary, in proportion aſ theſe fetes become more frequent, the enthuſiaſm which they excite ſeemſ to diminiſh. "For ever mark, Lucilius, when Love begins to ſicken and decline, it uſeth an enforced ceremony." When there were no foederations, the people were more united. The planting trees of liberty ſeems to have damped the ſpirit of freedom; and ſince there has been a decree for wearing the national colours, they are more the marks of obedience than proofs of affection.—I cannot pretend to decide whether the leaders of the people find their followers leſs warm than they were, and think it neceſſary to ſtimulate them by theſe ſhows, or whether the ſhows themſelves, by too frequent repetition, have rendered the people indifferent about the objects of them.—Perhaps both theſe ſuppoſitionſ are true. The French are volatile and material; they are not very capable of attachment to principles. External objects are requiſite for them, even in a ſlight degree; and the momentary enthuſiaſm that iſ obtained by affecting their ſenſes ſubſides with the concluſion of a favourite air, or the end of a gaudy proceſſion.
The Jacobin party are daily gaining ground; and ſince they have forced a miniſtry of their own on the King, their triumph has become ſtill more inſolent and deciſive.—A ſtorm is ſaid to be hovering over us, which I think of with dread, and cannot communicate with ſafety—"Heaven ſquare the trial of thoſe who are implicated, to their proportioned ſtrength!"— Adieu.
Auguſt 4, 1792.
I muſt repeat to you, that I have no talent for deſcription; and, having ſeldom been able to profit by the deſcriptions of others, I am modeſt enough not willingly to attempt one myſelf. But, as you obſerve, the ceremony of a foederation, though familiar to me, is not ſo to my Engliſh friends; I therefore obey your commands, though certain of not ſucceeding ſo as to gratify your curioſity in the manner you too partially expect.
The temple where the ceremony was performed, was erected in an open ſpace, well choſen both for convenience and effect. In a large circle on this ſpot, twelve poſts, between fifty and ſixty feet high, were placed at equal diſtances, except one larger, opening in front by way of entrance. On each alternate poſt were faſtened ivy, laurel, &c. ſo as to form a thick body which entirely hid the ſupport. Theſe greens were then ſhorn (in the manner you ſee in old faſhioned gardens) into the form of Doric columns, of dimenſions proportioned to their height. The intervening poſts were covered with white cloth, which was ſo artificially folded, as exactly to reſemble fluted pillarſ—from the baſes of which aſcended ſpiral wreaths of flowers. The whole waſ connected at top by a bold feſtoon of foliage, and the capital of each column was ſurmounted by a vaſe of white lilies. In the middle of thiſ temple was placed an altar, hung round with lilies, and on it was depoſed the book of the conſtitution. The approach to the altar was by a large flight of ſteps, covered with beautiful tapeſtry.
All this having been arranged and decorated, (a work of ſeveral days,) the important aera was uſhered in by the firing of cannon, ringing of bells, and an appearance of buſtle and hilarity not to be ſeen on any other occaſion. About ten, the members of the diſtrict, the municipality, and the judges in their habits of ceremony, met at the great church, and from thence proceeded to the altar of liberty. The troops of the line, the Garde Nationale of the town, and of all the ſurrounding communes, then arrived, with each their reſpective muſic and colours, which (reſerving one only of the latter to diſtinguiſh them in the ranks) they planted round the altar. This done, they retired, and forming a circle round the temple, left a large intermediate ſpace free. A maſs was then celebrated with the moſt perfect order and decency, and at the concluſion were read the rights of man and the conſtitution. The troops, Garde Nationale, &c. were then addreſſed by their reſpective officers, the oath to be faithful to the nation, the law, and the King, was adminiſtered: every ſword was drawn, and every hat waved in the air; while all the bands of muſic joined in the favorite ſtrain of ca ira.— This was followed by crowning, with the civic wreaths hung round the altar, a number of people, who during the year had been inſtrumental in ſaving the lives of their fellow-citizens that had been endangered by drowning or other accidents. This honorary reward was accompanied by a pecuniary one, and a fraternal embrace from all the conſtituted bodies. But this was not the graveſt part of the ceremony. The magiſtrates, however upright, were not all graceful, and the people, though they underſtood the value of the money, did not that of the civic wreaths, or the embraces; they therefore looked vacant enough during this part of the buſineſs, and grinned moſt facetiouſly when they began to examine the appearance of each other in their oaken crowns, and, I dare ſay, thought the whole comical enough.—This is one trait of national pedantry. Becauſe the Romans awarded a civic wreath for an act of humanity, the French have adopted the cuſtom; and decorate thus a ſoldier or a ſailor, who never heard of the Romans in his life, except in extracts from the New Teſtament at maſs.
But to return to our fete, of which I have only to add, that the magiſtrates departed in the order they obſerved in coming, and the troopſ and Garde Nationale filed off with their hats in the air, and with univerſal acclamations, to the ſound of ca ira.—Things of this kind are not ſuſceptible of deſcription. The detail may be unintereſting, while the general effect may have been impreſſive. The ſpirit of the ſcene I have been endeavouring to recall ſeems to have evaporated under my pen; yet to the ſpectator it was gay, elegant, and impoſing. The day waſ fine, a brilliant ſun glittered on the banners, and a gentle breeze gave them motion; while the ſatiſfied countenances of the people added ſpirit and animation to the whole.
I muſt remark to you, that devots, and determined ariſtocrates, ever attend on theſe occaſions. The piety of the one is ſhocked at a maſs by a prieſt who has taken the oaths, and the pride of the other is not yet reconciled to confuſion of ranks and popular feſtivities. I aſked a woman who brings us fruit every day, why ſhe had not come on the fourteenth as uſual. She told me ſhe did not come to the town, "a cauſe de la foederation"—"Vous etes ariſtocrate donc?"—"Ah, mon Dieu non—ce n'eſt pas que je ſuis ariſtocrate, ou democrate, mais que je ſuiſ Chretienne.*"
*"On account of the foederation."—"You are an ariſtocrate then, I ſuppoſe?"—"Lord, no! It is not becauſe I am an ariſtocrate, or a democrate, but becauſe I am a Chriſtian."
This is an inſtance, among many others I could produce, that our legiſlators have been wrong, in connecting any change of the national religion with the revolution. I am every day convinced, that this and the aſſignats are the great cauſes of the alienation viſible in many who were once the warmeſt patriots.—Adieu: do not envy us our fetes and ceremonies, while you enjoy a conſtitution which requires no oath to make you cheriſh it: and a national liberty, which is felt and valued without the aid of extrinſic decoration.—Yours.
Auguſt 15.
The conſternation and horror of which I have been partaker, will more than apologize for my ſilence. It is impoſſible for any one, however unconnected with the country, not to feel an intereſt in its preſent calamities, and to regret them. I have little courage to write even now, and you muſt pardon me if my letter ſhould bear marks of the general depreſſion. All but the faction are grieved and indignant at the King'ſ depoſition; but this grief is without energy, and this indignation ſilent. The partizans of the old government, and the friends of the new, are equally enraged; but they have no union, are ſuſpicious of each other, and are ſinking under the ſtupor of deſpair, when they ſhould be preparing for revenge.—It would not be eaſy to deſcribe our ſituation during the laſt week. The ineffectual efforts of La Fayette, and the violences occaſioned by them, had prepared us for ſomething ſtill more ſerious. On the ninth, we had a letter from one of the repreſentativeſ for this department, ſtrongly expreſſive of his apprehenſions for the morrow, but promiſing to write if he ſurvived it. The day, on which we expected news, came, but no poſt, no papers, no diligence, nor any meanſ of information. The ſucceeding night we ſat up, expecting letters by the poſt: ſtill, however, none arrived; and the courier only paſſed haſtily through, giving no detail, but that Paris was a feu et a ſang.*
* All fire and ſlaughter.
At length, after paſſing two days and nights in this dreadful ſuſpence, we received certain intelligence which even exceeded our fears.—It iſ needleſs to repeat the horrors that have been perpetrated. The accountſ muſt, ere now, have reached you. Our repreſentative, as he ſeemed to expect, was ſo ill treated as to be unable to write: he was one of thoſe who had voted the approval of La Fayette's conduct—all of whom were either maſſacred, wounded, or intimidated; and, by this means, a majority was procured to vote the depoſition of the King. The party allow, by their own accounts, eight thouſand perſons to have periſhed on thiſ occaſion; but the number is ſuppoſed to be much more conſiderable. No papers are publiſhed at preſent except thoſe whoſe editors, being memberſ of the Aſſembly, and either agents or inſtigators of the maſſacres, are, of courſe, intereſted in concealing or palliating them.—-Mr. De _____ has juſt now taken up one of theſe atrocious journals, and exclaims, with tears ſtarting from his eyes, "On a abattu la ſtatue d'Henri quatre!*"
*"They have deſtroyed the ſtatue of Henry the Fourth."
The ſacking of Rome by the Goths offers no picture equal to the licentiouſneſs and barbarity committed in a country which calls itſelf the moſt enlightened in Europe.—But, inſtead of recording theſe horrors, I will fill up my paper with the Choeur Bearnais.
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Choeur Bearnais. "Un troubadour Bearnais, "Le yeux inoudes de larmes, "A ſes montagnardſ "Chantoit ce refrein ſource d'alarmeſ— "Louis le fils d'Henri "Eſt priſonnier dans Pariſ! "Il a tremble pour les jourſ "De ſa compagne cherie "Qui n'a troube de ſecourſ "Que dans ſa propre energie; "Elle ſuit le fils d'Henri "Dans les priſons de Paris. "Quel crime ont ils donc commiſ "Pour etre enchaines de meme? "Du peuple ils ſont les amis, "Le peuple veut il qu'on l'aime, "Quand il met le fils d'Henri "Dans les priſons de Paris? "Le Dauphin, ce fils cheri, "Qui ſeul fait notre eſperance, "De pleurs ſera donc nourri; "Les Berceaux qu'on donne en France "Aux enfans de notre Henri "Sont les priſons de Paris. "Il a vu couler le ſang "De ce garde fidele, "Qui vient d'offrir en mourant "Aux Francais un beau modele; Mais Louis le fils d'Henri "Eſt priſonnier dans Paris. "Il n'eſt ſi triſte appareil "Qui du reſpect nous degage, "Les feux ardens du Soleil "Savent percer le nuage: "Le priſonnier de Pariſ "Eſt toujours le fils d'Henri. "Francais, trop ingrats Francaiſ "Rendez le Roi a ſa compagne; "C'eſt le bien du Bearnais, "C'eſt l'enfant de la Montagne: "Le bonheur qu' avoit Henri "Nous l'affarons a Louis. "Chez vouz l'homme a de ſes droitſ "Recouvre le noble uſage, "Et vous opprimez vos rois, "Ah! quel injuſte partage! "Le peuple eſt libre, et Louiſ "Eſt priſonnier dans Paris. "Au pied de ce monument "Ou le bon Henri reſpire "Pourquoi l'airain foudroyant? "Ah l'on veut qu' Henri conſpire "Lui meme contre ſon filſ "Dans les priſons de Paris." |
It was publiſhed ſome time ago in a periodical work, (written with great ſpirit and talents,) called "The Acts of the Apoſtles," and, I believe, has not yet appeared in England. The ſituation of the King gives a peculiar intereſt to theſe ſtanzas, which, merely as a poetical compoſition, are very beautiful. I have often attempted to tranſlate them, but have always found it impoſſible to preſerve the effect and ſimplicity of the original. They are ſet to a little plaintive air, very happily characteriſtic of the words.
Perhaps I ſhall not write to you again from hence, as we depart for A_____ on Tueſday next. A change of ſcene will diſſipate a little the ſeriouſneſs we have contracted during the late events. If I were determined to indulge grief or melancholy, I would never remove from the ſpot where I had formed the reſolution. Man is a proud animal even when oppreſſed by miſfortune. He ſeeks for his tranquility in reaſon and reflection; whereas, a poſt-chaiſe and four, or even a hard-trotting horſe, is worth all the philoſophy in the world.—But, if, as I obſerved before, a man be determined to reſiſt conſolation, he cannot do better than ſtay at home, and reaſon and phoſophize.
Adieu:—the ſituation of my friends in this country makes me think of England with pleaſure and reſpect; and I ſhall conclude with a very homely couplet, which, after all the faſhionable liberality of modern travellers, contains a great deal of truth:
|
"Amongſt mankind "We ne'er ſhall find "The worth we left at home." |
Yours, &c.
Auguſt 22, 1792.
The hour is paſt, in which, if the King's friends had exerted themſelves, they might have procured a movement in his favour. The people were at firſt amazed, then grieved; but the national philoſophy already begins to operate, and they will ſink into indifference, till again awakened by ſome new calamity. The leaders of the faction do not, however, entirely depend either on the ſupineneſs of their adverſaries, or the ſubmiſſion of the people. Money is diſtributed amongſt the idle and indigent, and agents are nightly employed in the public houſes to comment on newſpapers, written for the purpoſe to blacken the King and exalt the patriotiſm of the party who have dethroned him. Much uſe has likewiſe been made of the advances of the Pruſſians towards Champagne, and the uſual mummery of ceremony has not been wanting. Robeſpierre, in a burſt of extemporary energy, previouſly ſtudied, has declared the country in danger. The declaration has been echoed by all the departments, and proclaimed to the people with much ſolemnity. We were not behind hand in the ceremonial of the buſineſs, though, ſomehow, the effect was not ſo ſerious and impoſing as one could have wiſhed on ſuch an occaſion. A ſmart flag, with the words "Citizens, the country is in danger," waſ prepared; the judges and the municipality were in their coſtume, the troops and Garde Nationale under arms, and an orator, ſurrounded by hiſ cortege, harangued in the principal parts of the town on the text of the banner which waved before him.
All this was very well; but, unfortunately, in order to diſtinguiſh the orator amidſt the croud, it was determined he ſhould harangue on horſeback. Now here aroſe a difficulty which all the ardour of patriotiſm was not able to ſurmount. The French are in general but indifferent equeſtrians; and it ſo happened that, in our municipality, thoſe who could ſpeak could not ride, and thoſe who could ride could not ſpeak. At length, however, after much debating, it was determined that arms ſhould yield to the gown, or rather, the horſe to the orator—with this precaution, that the monture ſhould be properly ſecured, by an attendant to hold the bridle. Under this ſafeguard, the rhetorician iſſued forth, and the firſt part of the ſpeech was performed without accident; but when, by way of relieving the declaimer, the whole military band began to flouriſh ca ira, the horſe, even more patriotic than hiſ rider, curvetted and twiſted with ſo much animation, that however the ſpectators might be delighted, the orator was far from participating in their ſatiſfaction. After all this, the ſpeech was to be finiſhed, and the ſilence of the muſic did not immediately tranquillize the animal. The orator's eye wandered from the paper that contained his ſpeech, with wiſtful glances toward the mane; the fervor of his indignation againſt the Auſtrians was frequently calmed by the involuntary ſtrikings he waſ obliged to ſubmit to; and at the very criſis of the emphatic declaration, he ſeemed much leſs occupied by his country's danger than his own. The people, who were highly amuſed, I dare ſay, conceived the whole ceremony to be a rejoicing, and at every repetition that the country was in danger, joined with great glee in the chorus of ca ira.*
*The oration conſiſted of ſeveral parts, each ending with a kind of burden of "Citoyens, la patri eſt en danger;" and the arrangers of the ceremony had not ſelected appropriate muſic: ſo that the band, who had been accuſtomed to play nothing elſe on public occaſions, ſtruck up ca ira at every declaration that the country was in danger!
Many of the ſpectators, I believe, had for ſome time been convinced of the danger that threatened the country, and did not ſuppoſe it much increaſed by the events of the war; others were pleaſed with a ſhow, without troubling themſelves about the occaſion of it; and the maſs, except when rouzed to attention by their favourite air, or the exhibitions of the equeſtrian orator, looked on with vacant ſtupidity. —This tremendous flag is now ſuſpended from a window of the Hotel de Ville, where it is to remain until the inſcription it wears ſhall no longer be true; and I heartily wiſh, the diſtreſſes of the country may not be more durable than the texture on which they are proclaimed.
Our journey is fixed for to-morrow, and all the morning has been paſſed in attendance for our paſſports.—This affair is not ſo quickly diſpatched as you may imagine. The French are, indeed, ſaid to be a very lively people, but we miſtake their volubility for vivacity; for in their public offices, their ſhops, and in any tranſaction of buſineſs, no people on earth can be more tediouſ—they are ſlow, irregular, and loquacious; and a retail Engliſh Quaker, with all his formalities, would diſpoſe of half his ſtock in leſs time than you can purchaſe a three ſolſ ſtamp from a briſk French Commis. You may therefore conceive, that thiſ official portraiture of ſo many females was a work of time, and not very pleaſant to the originals. The delicacy of an Engliſhman may be ſhocked at the idea of examining and regiſtering a lady's features one after another, like the articles of a bill of lading; but the cold and ſyſtematic gallantry of a Frenchman is not ſo ſcrupulous.—The officer, however, who is employed for this purpoſe here, is civil, and I ſuſpected the infinity of my noſe, and the acuteneſs of Mad. de ____'s chin, might have diſconcerted him; but he extricated himſelf very decently. My noſe is enrolled in the order of aquilines, and the old lady's chin pared off to a "menton un peu pointu."—[A longiſh chin.]
The carriages are ordered for ſeven to-morrow. Recollect, that ſeven females, with all their appointments, are to occupy them, and then calculate the hour I ſhall begin increaſing my diſtance from England and my friends. I ſhall not do it without regret; yet perhaps you will be leſs inclined to pity me than the unfortunate wights who are to eſcort us. A journey of an hundred miles, with French horſes, French carriages, French harneſs, and ſuch an unreaſonable female charge, is, I confeſs, in great humility, not to be ventured on without a moſt determined patience.—I ſhall write to you on our arrival at Arras; and am, till then, at all times, and in all places, Yours.
Heſdin.
We arrived here laſt night, notwithſtanding the difficulties of our firſt ſetting out, in tolerable time; but I have gained ſo little in point of repoſe, that I might as well have continued my journey. We are lodged at an inn which, though large and the beſt in the town, is ſo diſguſtingly filthy, that I could not determine to undreſs myſelf, and am now up and ſcribbling, till my companions ſhall be ready. Our embarkation will, I foreſee, be a work of time and labour; for my friend, Mad. de ____, beſides the uſual attendants on a French woman, a femme de chambre and a lap-dog, travels with ſeveral cages of canary-birds, ſome pots of curiouſ exotics, and a favourite cat; all of which muſt be diſpoſed of ſo as to produce no interſtine commotions during the journey. Now if you conſider the nature of theſe fellow-travellers, you will allow it not ſo eaſy a matter as may at firſt be ſuppoſed, eſpecially as their fair miſtreſſ will not allow any of them to be placed in any other carriage than her own.—A fray happened yeſterday between the cat and the dog, during which the birds were overſet, and the plants broken. Poor M. de ____, with a ſort of rueful good nature, ſeparated the combatants, reſtored order, and was obliged to purchaſe peace by charging himſelf with the care of the aggreſſor.
I ſhould not have dwelt ſo long on theſe trifling occurrences, but that they are characteriſtic. In England, this paſſion for animals is chiefly confined to old maids, but here it is general. Almoſt every woman, however numerous her family, has a nurſery of birds, an angola, and two or three lap-dogs, who ſhare her cares with her huſband and children. The dogs have all romantic names, and are enquired after with ſo much ſolicitude when they do not make one in a viſit, that it was ſome time before I diſcovered that Nina and Roſine were not the young ladies of the family. I do not remember to have ſeen any huſband, however maſter of his houſe in other reſpects, daring enough to diſplace a favourite animal, even though it occupied the only vacant fauteuil.
The entrance into Artois from Picardy, though confounded by the new diviſion, is ſufficiently marked by a higher cultivation, and a more fertile ſoil. The whole country we have paſſed is agreeable, but uniform; the roads are good, and planted on each ſide with trees, moſtly elms, except here and there ſome rows of poplar or apple. The land iſ all open, and ſown in diviſions of corn, carrots, potatoes, tobacco, and poppies of which laſt they make a coarſe kind of oil for the uſe of painters. The country is entirely flat, and the view every where bounded by woods interſperſed with villages, whoſe little ſpires peeping through the trees have a very pleaſing effect.
The people of Artois are ſaid to be highly ſuperſtitious, and we have already paſſed a number of ſmall chapels and croſſes, erected by the road ſide, and ſurrounded by tufts of trees. Theſe are the inventions of a miſtaken piety; yet they are not entirely without their uſe, and I cannot help regarding them with more complacence than a rigid Proteſtant might think allowable. The weary traveller here finds ſhelter from a mid-day ſun, and ſolaces his mind while he repoſes his body. The glittering equipage rolls by—he recalls the painful ſteps he has paſt, anticipateſ thoſe which yet remain, and perhaps is tempted to repine; but when he turns his eye on the croſs of Him who has promiſed a recompence to the ſufferers of this world, he checks the ſigh of envy, forgets the luxury which excited it, and purſues his way with reſignation. The Proteſtant religion proſcribes, and the character of the Engliſh renderſ unneceſſary, theſe ſenſible objects of devotion; but I have always been of opinion, that the levity of the French in general would make them incapable of perſevering in a form of worſhip equally abſtracted and rational. The Spaniards, and even the Italians, might aboliſh their croſſes and images, and yet preſerve their Chriſtianity; but if the French ceaſed to be bigots, they would become atheiſts.
This is a ſmall fortified town, though not of ſtrength to offer any reſiſtance to artillery. Its proximity to the frontier, and the dread of the Auſtrians, make the inhabitants very patriotic. We were ſurrounded by a great croud of people on our arrival, who had ſome ſuſpicion that we were emigrating; however, as ſoon as our paſſports were examined and declared legal, they retired very peaceably.
The approach of the enemy keeps up the ſpirit of the people, and, notwithſtanding their diſſatiſfaction at the late events, they have not yet felt the change of their government ſufficiently to deſire the invaſion of an Auſtrian army.—Every village, every cottage, hailed uſ with the cry of Vive la nation! The cabaret invites you to drink beer a la nation, and offers you lodging a la nation—the chandler's ſhop ſellſ you ſnuff and hair powder a la nation—and there are even patriotic barbers whoſe ſigns inform you, that you may be ſhaved and have your teeth drawn a la nation! Theſe are acts of patriotiſm one cannot reaſonably object to; but the frequent and tedious examination of one'ſ paſſports by people who can't read, is not quite ſo inoffenſive, and I ſometimes loſe my patience. A very vigilant Garde Nationale yeſterday, after ſpelling my paſſport over for ten minutes, objected that it was not a good one. I maintained that it was; and feeling a momentary importance at the recollection of my country, added, in an aſſuring tone, "Et d'ailleurs je ſuis Anglaiſe et par conſequent libre d'aller ou bon me ſemble.*" The man ſtared, but admitted my argument, and we paſſed on.
*"Beſides, I am a native of England, and, conſequently, have a right to go where I pleaſe."
My room door is half open, and gives me a proſpect into that of Mad. de L____, which is on the oppoſite ſide of the paſſage. She has not yet put on her cap, but her grey hair is profuſely powdered; and, with no other garments than a ſhort under petticoat and a corſet, ſhe ſtands for the edification of all who paſs, putting on her rouge with a ſtick and a bundle of cotton tied to the end of it.—All travellers agree in deſcribing great indelicacy to the French women; yet I have ſeen no accounts which exaggerate it, and ſcarce any that have not been more favourable than a ſtrict adherence to truth might juſtify. Thiſ inattractive part of the female national character is not confined to the lower or middling claſſes of life; and an Engliſh woman is as likely to be put to the bluſh in the boudoir of a Marquiſe, as in the ſhop of the Griſette, which ſerves alſo for her dreſſing-room.
If I am not too idle, or too much amuſed, you will ſoon be informed of my arrival at Arras; but though I ſhould neglect to write, be perſuaded I ſhall never ceaſe to be, with affection and eſteem, Yours, &c.
Arras, Auguſt, 1792.
The appearance of Arras is not buſy in proportion to its population, becauſe its population is not equal to its extent; and as it is a large, without being a commercial, town, it rather offers a view of the tranquil enjoyment of wealth, than of the buſtle and activity by which it iſ procured. The ſtreets are moſtly narrow and ill paved, and the ſhopſ look heavy and mean; but the hotels, which chiefly occupy the low town, are large and numerous. What is called la Petite Place, is really very large, and ſmall only in compariſon with the great one, which, I believe, is the largeſt in France. It is, indeed, an immenſe quadrangle—the houſes are in the Spaniſh form, and it has an arcade all round it. The Spaniards, by whom it was built, forgot, probably, that this kind of ſhelter would not be ſo deſirable here as in their own climate. The manufacture of tapeſtry, which a ſingle line of Shakeſpeare haſ immortalized, and aſſociated with the mirthful image of his fat Knight, has fallen into decay. The manufacturers of linen and woollen are but inconſiderable; and one, which exiſted till lately, of a very durable porcelain, is totally neglected. The principal article of commerce iſ lace, which is made here in great quantities. The people of all ages, from five years old to ſeventy, are employed in this delicate fabrick. In fine weather you will ſee whole ſtreets lined with females, each with her cuſhion on her lap. The people of Arras are uncommonly dirty, and the lacemakers do not in this matter differ from their fellow-citizens; yet at the door of a houſe, which, but for the ſurrounding ones, you would ſuppoſe the common receptacle of all the filth in the vicinage, iſ often ſeated a female artizan, whoſe fingers are forming a point of unblemiſhed whiteneſs. It is inconceivable how faſt the bobbins move under their hands; and they ſeem to beſtow ſo little attention on their work, that it looks more like the amuſement of idleneſs than an effort of induſtry. I am no judge of the arguments of philoſophers and politicianſ for and againſt the uſe of luxury in a ſtate; but if it be allowable at all, much may be ſaid in favour of this pleaſing article of it. Children may be taught to make it at a very early age, and they can work at home under the inſpection of their parents, which is certainly preferable to crouding them together in manufactories, where their health is injured, and their morals are corrupted.
By requiring no more implements than about five ſhillings will purchaſe, a lacemaker is not dependent on the ſhopkeeper, nor the head of a manufactory. All who chooſe to work have it in their own power, and can diſpoſe of the produce of their labour, without being at the mercy of an avaricious employer; for though a tolerable good workwoman can gain a decent livelihood by ſelling to the ſhops, yet the profit of the retailer is ſo great, that if he rejected a piece of lace, or refuſed to give a reaſonable price for it, a certain ſale would be found with the individual conſumer: and it is a proof of the independence of thiſ employ, that no one will at preſent diſpoſe of their work for paper, and it ſtill continues to be paid for in money. Another argument in favour of encouraging lace-making is, that it cannot be uſurped by men: you may have men-milliners, men-mantuamakers, and even ladieſ' valets, but you cannot well faſhion the clumſy and inflexible fingers of man to lace-making. We import great quantities of lace from this country, yet I imagine we might, by attention, be enabled to ſupply other countries, inſtead of purchaſing abroad ourſelves. The art of ſpinning is daily improving in England; and if thread ſufficiently fine can be manufactured, there is no reaſon why we ſhould not equal our neighbourſ in the beauty of this article. The hands of Engliſh women are more delicate than thoſe of the French; and our climate is much the ſame aſ that of Bruſſels, Arras, Liſle, &c. where the fineſt lace is made.
The population of Arras is eſtimated at about twenty-five thouſand ſouls, though many people tell me it is greater. It has, however, been lately much thinned by emigration, ſuppreſſion of convents, and the decline of trade, occaſioned by the abſence of ſo many rich inhabitants.—The Jacobins are here become very formidable: they have taken poſſeſſion of a church for their meetings, and, from being the ridicule, are become the terror of all moderate people.
Yeſterday was appointed for taking the new oath of liberty and equality. I did not ſee the ceremony, as the town was in much confuſion, and it waſ deemed unſafe to be from home. I underſtand it was attended only by the very refuſe of the people, and that, as a gallanterie analogue, the Preſident of the department gave his arm to Madame Duchene, who ſellſ apples in a cellar, and is Preſidente of the Jacobin club. It is, however, reported to-day, that ſhe is in diſgrace with the ſociety for her condeſcenſion; and her parading the town with a man of forty thouſand livres a year is thought to be too great a compliment to the ariſtocracy of riches; ſo that Mons. Le Preſident's political gallantry has availed him nothing. He has debaſed and made himſelf the ridicule of the Ariſtocrates and Conſtitutionaliſts, without paying his court, as he intended, to the popular faction. I would always wiſh it to happen ſo to thoſe who offer up incenſe to the mob. As human beings, as one's fellow creatures, the poor and uninformed have a claim to our affection and benevolence, but when they become legiſlators, they are abſurd and contemptible tyrants.—A propoſ—we were obliged to acknowledge this new ſovereignty by illuminating the houſe on the occaſion; and this was not ordered by nocturnal vociferation as in England, but by a regular command from an officer deputed for that purpoſe.
I am concerned to ſee the people accuſtomed to take a number of incompatible oaths with indifference: it neither will nor can come to any good; and I am ready to exclaim with Juliet—"Swear not at all." Or, if ye muſt ſwear, quarrel not with the Pope, that your conſciences may at leaſt be relieved by diſpenſations and indulgences.
To-morrow we go to Liſle, notwithſtanding the report that it has already been ſummoned to ſurrender. You will ſcarcely ſuppoſe it poſſible, yet we find it difficult to learn the certainty of this, at the diſtance of only thirty miles: but communication is much leſs frequent and eaſy here than in England. I am not one of thoſe "unfortunate women who delight in war;" and, perhaps, the ſight of this place, ſo famous for itſ fortifications, will not be very amuſing to me, nor furniſh much matter of communication for my friends; but I ſhall write, if it be only to aſſure you that I am not made prize of by the Auſtrians. Yours, &c.
Liſle, Auguſt, 1792.
You reſtleſs iſlanders, who are continually racking imagination to perfect the art of moving from one place to another, and who can drop aſleep in a carriage and wake at an hundred mile diſtance, have no notion of all the difficulties of a day's journey here. In the firſt place, all the horſes of private perſons have been taken for the uſe of the army, and thoſe for hire are conſtantly employed in going to the camp—hence, there is a difficulty in procuring horſes. Then a French carriage iſ never in order, and in France a job is not to be done juſt when you want it—ſo that there is often a difficulty in finding vehicles. Then there is the difficulty of paſſports, and the difficulty of gates, if you want to depart early. Then the difficulties of patching harneſs on the road, and, above all, the inflexible ſang froid of drivers. All theſe thingſ conſidered, you will not wonder that we came here a day after we intended, and arrived at night, when we ought to have arrived at noon. —The carriage wanted a trifling repair, and we could get neither paſſports nor horſes. The horſes were gone to the army—the municipality to the club—and the blackſmith was employed at the barracks in making a patriotic harangue to the ſoldiers.—But we at length ſurmounted all theſe obſtacles, and reached this place laſt night.
The road between Arras and Liſle is equally rich with that we before paſſed, but is much more diverſified. The plain of Lens is not ſuch a ſcene of fertility, that one forgets it has once been that of war and carnage. We endeavoured to learn in the town whereabouts the column waſ erected that commemmorates that famous battle, [1648.] but no one ſeemed to know any thing of the matter. One who, we flattered ourſelves, looked more intelligent than the reſt, and whom we ſuppoſed might be an attorney, upon being aſked for this ſpot,—(where, added Mr. de ____, by way of aſſiſting his memory, "le Prince de Conde ſ'eſt battu ſi bien,") —replied, "Pour la bataille je n'en ſais rien, mais pour le Prince de Conde il y a deja quelque tems qu'il eſt emigre—on le dit a Coblentz."* After this we thought it in vain to make any farther enquiry, and continued our walk about the town.
*"Where the Prince of Conde fought ſo gallantly."—"As to the battle I know nothing about the matter; but for the Prince of Conde he emigrated ſome time ſince—they ſay he is at Coblentz."
Mr. P____, who, according to French cuſtom, had not breakfaſted, took a fancy to ſtop at a baker's ſhop and buy a roll. The man beſtowed ſo much more civility on us than our two ſols were worth, that I obſerved, on quitting the ſhop, I was ſure he muſt be an Ariſtocrate. Mr. P____, who is a warm Conſtitutionaliſt, diſputed the juſtice of my inference, and we agreed to return, and learn the baker's political principles. After aſking for more rolls, we accoſted him with the uſual phraſe, "Et vous, Monſieur, vous etes bon patriote?"—"Ah, mon Dieu, oui, (replied he,) il faut bien l'etre a preſent."*
*"And you, Sir, are without doubt, a good patriot?"—"Oh Lord, Sir, yes; one's obliged to be ſo, now-a-days."
Mr. P____ admitted the man's tone of voice and countenance as good evidence, and acknowledged I was right.—It is certain that the French have taken it into their heads, that coarſeneſs of manners is a neceſſary conſequence of liberty, and that there is a kind of leze nation in being too civil; ſo that, in general, I think I can diſcover the principles of ſhopkeepers, even without the indications of a melancholy mien at the aſſignats, or lamentations on the times.
The new doctrine of primeval equality has already made ſome progreſs. At a ſmall inn at Carvin, where, upon the aſſurance that they had every thing in the world, we ſtopped to dine, on my obſerving they had laid more covers than were neceſſary, the woman anſwered, "Et les domeſtiques, ne dinent ils pas?"—"And, pray, are the ſervants to have no dinner?"
We told her not with us, and the plates were taken away; but we heard her muttering in the kitchen, that ſhe believed we were ariſtocrates going to emigrate. She might imagine alſo that we were difficult to ſatiſfy, for we found it impoſſible to dine, and left the houſe hungry, notwithſtanding there was "every thing in the world" in it.
On the road between Carvin and Liſle we ſaw Dumouriez, who is going to take the command of the army, and has now been viſiting the camp of Maulde. He appears to be under the middle ſize, about fifty years of age, with a brown complexion, dark eyes, and an animated countenance. He was not originally diſtinguiſhed either by birth or fortune, and haſ arrived at his preſent ſituation by a concurrence of fortuitouſ circumſtances, by great and various talents, much addreſs, and a ſpirit of intrigue. He is now ſupported by the prevailing party; and, I confeſs, I could not regard with much complacence a man, whom the machinations of the Jacobins had forced into the miniſtry, and whoſe hypocritical and affected reſignation has contributed to deceive the people, and ruin the King.
Liſle has all the air of a great town, and the mixture of commercial induſtry and military occupation gives it a very gay and populouſ appearance. The Lillois are highly patriotic, highly incenſed againſt the Auſtrians, and regard the approaching ſiege with more contempt than apprehenſion. I aſked the ſervant who was making my bed this morning, how far the enemy was off. "Une lieue et demie, ou deux lieues, a moinſ qu'ils ne ſoient plus avances depuis hier,"* repled ſhe, with the utmoſt indifference.—I own, I did not much approve of ſuch a vicinage, and a view of the fortifications (which did not make the leſs impreſſion, becauſe I did not underſtand them,) was abſolutely neceſſary to raiſe my drooping courage.
*"A league and a half, or two leagues; unleſs, indeed, they have advanced ſince yeſterday."
This morning was dedicated to viſiting the churches, citadel, and Colliſee (a place of amuſement in the manner of our Vauxhall); but all theſe things have been ſo often deſcribed by much abler pens, that I cannot modeſtly pretend to add any thing on the ſubject.
In the evening we were at the theatre, which is large and handſome; and the conſtant reſidence of a numerous garriſon enables it to entertain a very good ſet of performers:—their operas in particular are extremely well got up. I ſaw Zemire et Azor given better than at Drury Lane.—In the farce, which was called Le Francois a Londres, was introduced a character they called that of an Engliſhman, (Jack Roaſtbeef,) who payſ his addreſſes to a nobleman's daughter, in a box coate, a large hat ſlouched over his eyes, and an oaken trowel in his hand—in ſhort, the whole figure exactly reſembling that of a watchman. His converſation iſ groſs and ſarcaſtic, interlarded with oaths, or relieved by fits of ſullen taciturnity—ſuch a lover as one may ſuppoſe, though rich, and the choice of the lady's father, makes no impreſſion; and the author haſ flattered the national vanity by making the heroine give the preference to a French marquis. Now there is no doubt but nine-tenths of the audience thought this a good portraiture of the Engliſh character, and enjoyed it with all the ſatiſfaction of conſcious ſuperiority.—The ignorance that prevails with regard to our manners and cuſtoms, among a people ſo near us, is ſurprizing. It is true, that the nobleſſe who have viſited England with proper recommendations, and have been introduced to the beſt ſociety, do us juſtice: the men of letters alſo, who, from party motives, extol every thing Engliſh, have done us perhaps more than juſtice. But I ſpeak of the French in general; not the lower claſſeſ only, but the gentry of the provinces, and even thoſe who in other reſpects have pretenſions to information. The fact is, living in England is expenſive: a Frenchman, whoſe income here ſupports him as a gentleman, goes over and finds all his habits of oeconomy inſufficient to keep him from exceeding the limits he had preſcribed to himſelf. His decent lodging alone coſts him a great part of his revenue, and obliges him to be ſtrictly parſimonious of the reſt. This drives him to aſſociate chiefly with his own countrymen, to dine at obſcure coffee-houſes, and pay his court to opera-dancers. He ſees, indeed, our theatres, our public walks, the outſide of our palaces, and the inſide of churches: but this gives him no idea of the manners of the people in ſuperior life, or even of eaſy fortune. Thus he goes home, and aſſerts to his untravelled countrymen, that our King and nobility are ill lodged, our churches mean, and that the Engliſh are barbarians, who dine without ſoup, uſe no napkin, and eat with their knives.—I have heard a gentleman of ſome reſpectability here obſerve, that our uſual dinner was an immenſe joint of meat half dreſt, and a diſh of vegetables ſcarcely dreſt at all.—Upon queſtioning him, I diſcovered he had lodged in St. Martin's Lane, had likewiſe boarded at a country attorney's of the loweſt claſs, and dined at an ordinary at Margate.
Some few weeks ago the Marquis de P____ ſet out from Paris in the diligence, and accompanied by his ſervant, with a deſign of emigrating. Their only fellow-traveller was an Engliſhman, whom they frequently addreſſed, and endeavoured to enter into converſation with; but he either remained ſilent, or gave them to underſtand he was entirely ignorant of the language. Under this perſuaſion the Marquis and his valet freely diſcuſſed their affairs, arranged their plan of emigration, and expreſſed, with little ceremony, their political opinions.—At the end of their journey they were denounced by their companion, and conducted to priſon. The magiſtrate who took the information mentioned the circumſtance when I happened to be preſent. Indignant at ſuch an act in an Engliſhman, I enquired his name. You will judge of my ſurprize, when he aſſured me it was the Engliſh Ambaſſador. I obſerved to him, that it was not common for our Ambaſſadors to travel in ſtage-coaches: this, he ſaid, he knew; but that having reaſon to ſuſpect the Marquis, Monſieur l'Ambaſſadeur had had the goodneſs to have him watched, and had taken this journey on purpoſe to detect him. It was not without much reaſoning, and the evidence of a lady who had been in England long enough to know the impoſſibility of ſuch a thing, that I would juſtify Lord G____ from this piece of complaiſance to the Jacobins, and convince the worthy magiſtrate he had been impoſed upon: yet this man is the Profeſſor of Eloquence at a college, is the oracle of the Jacobin ſociety; and may perhaps become a member of the Convention. This ſeems ſo almoſt incredibly abſurd, that I ſhould fear to repeat it, were it not known to many beſides myſelf; but I think I may venture to pronounce, from my own obſervation, and that of others, whoſe judgement, and occaſions of exerciſing it, give weight to their opinions, that the generality of the French who have read a little are mere pedants, nearly unacquainted with modern nations, their commercial and political relation, their internal laws, characters, or manners. Their ſtudies are chiefly confined to Rollin and Plutarch, the deiſtical works of Voltaire, and the viſionary politics of Jean Jaques. Hence they amuſe their hearers with alluſionſ to Caeſar and Lycurgus, the Rubicon, and Thermopylae. Hence they pretend to be too enlightened for belief, and deſpiſe all governments not founded on the Contrat Social, or the Profeſſion de Foi.—They are an age removed from the uſeful literature and general information of the middle claſſeſ in their own country—they talk familiarly of Sparta and Lacedemon, and have about the ſame idea of Ruſſia as they have of Caffraria. Yours.
Liſle.
"Married to another, and that before thoſe ſhoes were old with which ſhe followed my poor father to the grave."—There is ſcarcely any circumſtance, or ſituation, in which, if one's memory were good, one ſhould not be mentally quoting Shakeſpeare. I have juſt now been whiſpering the above, as I paſſed the altar of liberty, which ſtill remains on the Grande Place. But "a month, a little month," ago, on thiſ altar the French ſwore to maintain the conſtitution, and to be faithful to the law and the King; yet this conſtitution is no more, the laws are violated, the King is dethroned, and the altar is now only a monument of levity and perjury, which they have not feeling enough to remove.
The Auſtrians are daily expected to beſiege this place, and they may deſtroy, but they will not take it. I do not, as you may ſuppoſe, venture to ſpeak ſo deciſively in a military point of view—I know aſ little as poſſible of the excellencies of Vauban, or the adequacy of the garriſon; but I draw my inference from the ſpirit of enthuſiaſm which prevails among the inhabitants of every claſſ—every individual ſeems to partake of it: the ſtreets reſound with patriotic acclamations, patriotic ſongs, war, and defiance.—Nothing can be more animating than the theatre. Every alluſion to the Auſtrians, every ſong or ſentence, expreſſive of determined reſiſtance, is followed by burſts of aſſent, eaſily diſtinguiſhable not to be the effort of party, but the ſentiment of the people in general. There are, doubtleſs, here, as in all other places, party diſſenſions; but the threatened ſiege ſeems at leaſt to have united all for their common defence: they know that a bomb makes no diſtinction between Feuillans, Jacobins, or Ariſtocrates, and neither are ſo anxious to deſtroy the other, when it is only to be done at ſuch a riſk to themſelves. I am even willing to hope that ſomething better than mere ſelfiſhneſs has a ſhare in their uniting to preſerve one of the fineſt, and, in every ſenſe, one of the moſt intereſting, towns in France.
Liſle, Saturday.
We are juſt on our departure for Arras, where, I fear, we ſhall ſcarcely arrive before the gates are ſhut. We have been detained here much beyond our time, by a circumſtance infinitely ſhocking, though, in fact, not properly a ſubject of regret. One of the aſſaſſins of General Dillon waſ this morning guillotined before the hotel where we are lodged.—I did not, as you will conclude, ſee the operation; but the mere circumſtance of knowing the moment it was performed, and being ſo near it, has much unhinged me. The man, however, deſerved his fate, and ſuch an example was particularly neceſſary at this time, when we are without a government, and the laws are relaxed. The mere privation of life is, perhaps, more quickly effected by this inſtrument than by any other means; but when we recollect that the preparation for, and apprehenſion of, death, conſtitute its greateſt terrors; that a human hand muſt give motion to the Guillotine as well as to the axe; and that either accuſtomſ a people, already ſanguinary, to the ſight of blood, I think little iſ gained by the invention. It was imagined by a Mons. Guillotin, a phyſician of Paris, and member of the Conſtituent Aſſembly. The original deſign ſeems not ſo much to ſpare pain to the criminal, as obloquy to the executioner. I, however, perceive little difference between a man'ſ directing a Guillotine, or tying a rope; and I believe the people are of the ſame opinion. They will never ſee any thing but a bourreau [executioner] in the man whoſe province it is to execute the ſentence of the laws, whatever name he may be called by, or whatever inſtrument he may make uſe of.—I have concluded this letter with a very unpleaſant ſubject, but my pen is guided by circumſtances, and I do not invent, but communicate.—Adieu. Yours, &c.
Arras, September 1, 1792.
Had I been accompanied by an antiquary this morning, his ſenſibility would have been ſeverely exerciſed; for even I, whoſe reſpect for antiquity is not ſcientific, could not help lamenting the modern rage for devaſtation which has ſeized the French. They are removing all "the time-honoured figureſ" of the cathedral, and painting its maſſive ſupporters in the ſtyle of a ball-room. The elaborate uncouthneſs of ancient ſculpture is not, indeed, very beautiful; yet I have often fancied there was ſomething more ſimply pathetic in the aukward effigy of an hero kneeling amidſt his trophies, or a regal pair with their ſupplicating hands and ſurrounding offſpring, than in the graceful figures and poetic allegories of the modern artiſt. The humble intreaty to the reader to "praye for the ſoule of the departed," is not very elegant—yet it is better calculated to recall the wanderings of morality, than the flattering epitaph, a Fame hovering in the air, or the ſuſpended wreath of the remunerating angel.—But I moralize in vain—the rage of theſe new Goths is inexorable: they ſeem ſolicitous to deſtroy every veſtige of civilization, leſt the people ſhould remember they have not always been barbarians.
After obtaining an order from the municipality, we went to ſee the gardens and palace of the Biſhop, who has emigrated. The garden haſ nothing very remarkable, but is large and well laid out, according to the old ſtyle. It forms a very agreeable walk, and, when the Biſhop poſſeſt it, was open for the enjoyment of the inhabitants, but it is now ſhut up and in diſorder. The houſe is plain, and ſubſtantially furniſhed, and exhibits no appearance of unbecoming luxury. The whole is now the property of the nation, and will ſoon be diſpoſed of.—I could not help feeling a ſenſation of melancholy as we walked over the apartments. Every thing is marked in an inventory, juſt as left; and an air of arrangement and reſidence leads one to reflect, that the owner did not imagine at his departure he was quitting it perhaps for ever. I am not partial to the original emigrants, yet much may be ſaid for the Biſhop of Arras. He was purſued by ingratitude, and marked for perſecution. The Robeſpierres were young men whom he had taken from a mean ſtate, had educated, and patronized. The revolution gave them an opportunity of diſplaying their talents, and their talents procured them popularity. They became enemies to the clergy, becauſe their patron was a Biſhop; and endeavoured to render their benefactor odious, becauſe the world could not forget, nor they forgive, how much they were indebted to him.—Vice is not often paſſive; nor is there often a medium between gratitude for benefits, and hatred to the author of them. A little mind is hurt by the remembrance of obligation—begins by forgetting, and, not uncommonly, ends by perſecuting.
We dined and paſſed the afternoon from home to-day. After dinner our hoſteſs, as uſual, propoſed cards; and, as uſual in French ſocieties, every one aſſented: we waited, however, ſome time, and no cards came— till, at length, converſation-parties were formed, and they were no longer thought of. I have ſince learned, from one of the young women of the houſe, that the butler and two footmen had all betaken themſelves to clubs and Guinguettes,* and the cards, counters, &c. could not be obtained.
* Small public houſes in the vicinity of large towns, where the common people go on Sundays and feſtivals to dance and make merry.
This is another evil ariſing from the circumſtances of the times. All people of property have begun to bury their money and plate, and as the ſervants are often unavoidably privy to it, they are become idle and impertinent—they make a kind of commutation of diligence for fidelity, and imagine that the obſervance of the one exempts them from the neceſſity of the other. The clubs are a conſtant receptacle for idleneſs; and ſervants who think proper to frequent them do it with very little ceremony, knowing that few whom they ſerve would be imprudent enough to diſcharge them for their patriotiſm in attending a Jacobin ſociety. Even ſervants who are not converts to the new principle cannot reſiſt the temptation of abuſing a little the power which they acquire from a knowledge of family affairs. Perhaps the effect of the revolution has not, on the whole, been favourable to the morals of the lower claſſ of people; but this ſhall be the ſubject of diſcuſſion at ſome future period, when I ſhall have had farther opportunities of judging.
We yeſterday viſited the Oratoire, a ſeminary for education, which is now ſuppreſſed. The building is immenſe, and admirably calculated for the purpoſe, but is already in a ſtate of dilapidation; ſo that, I fear, by the time the legiſlature has determined what ſyſtem of inſtruction ſhall be ſubſtituted for that which has been aboliſhed, the children (as the French are fond of examples from the ancients) will take their leſſons, like the Greeks, in the open air; and, in the mean while, become expert in lying and thieving, like the Spartans.
The Superior of the houſe is an immoderate revolutioniſt, ſpeaks Engliſh very well, and is a great admirer of our party writers. In his room I obſerved a vaſt quantity of Engliſh books, and on his chimney ſtood what he called a patriotic clock, the dial of which was placed between two pyramids, on which were inſcribed the names of republican authors, and on the top of one was that of our countryman, Mr. Thomas Paine—whom, by the way, I underſtand you intended to exhibit in a much more conſpicuous and leſs tranquil ſituation. I aſſure you, though you are ungrateful on your ſide of the water, he is in high repute here—his works are tranſlated— all the Jacobins who can read quote, and all who can't, admire him; and poſſibly, at the very moment you are ſentencing him to an inſtallment in the pillory, we may be awarding him a triumph.—Perhaps we are both right. He deſerves the pillory, from you for having endeavoured to deſtroy a good conſtitution—and the French may with equal reaſon grant him a triumph, as their conſtitution is likely to be ſo bad, that even Mr. Thomas Paine's writings may make it better!
Our houſe is ſituated within view of a very pleaſant public walk, where I am daily amuſed with a ſight of the recruits at their exerciſe. This iſ not quite ſo regular a buſineſs as the drill in the Park. The exerciſe is often interrupted by diſputes between the officer and his eleveſ—ſome are for turning to the right, others to the left, and the matter is not unfrequently adjuſted by each going the way that ſeemeth beſt unto himſelf. The author of the "Actes des Apotreſ" [The Acts of the Apoſtles] cites a Colonel who reprimanded one of his corps for walking ill—"Eh Dicentre, (replied the man,) comment veux tu que je marche bien quand tu as fait mes ſouliers trop etroits."* but this is no longer a pleaſantry—ſuch circumſtances are very common. A Colonel may often be tailor to his own regiment, and a Captain operated on the heads of hiſ whole company, in his civil capacity, before he commands them in hiſ military one.
*"And how the deuce can you expect me to march well, when you have made my ſhoes too tight?"
The walks I have juſt mentioned have been extremely beautiful, but a great part of the trees have been cut down, and the ornamental partſ deſtroyed, ſince the revolution—I know not why, as they were open to the poor as well as the rich, and were a great embelliſhment to the low town. You may think it ſtrange that I ſhould be continually dating ſome deſtruction from the aera of the revolution—that I ſpeak of every thing demoliſhed, and of nothing replaced. But it is not my fault—"If freedom grows deſtructive, I muſt paint it:" though I ſhould tell you, that in many ſtreets where convents have been ſold, houſes are building with the materials on the ſame ſite.—This is, however, not a work of the nation, but of individuals, who have made their purchaſes cheap, and are haſtening to change the form of their property, leſt ſome new revolution ſhould deprive them of it.—Yours, &c.
Arras, September.
Nothing more powerfully excites the attention of a ſtranger on his firſt arrival, than the number and wretchedneſs of the poor at Arras. In all places poverty claims compulſion, but here compaſſion is accompanied by horror—one dares not contemplate the object one commiſerates, and charity relieves with an averted eye. Perhaps with Him, who regardſ equally the forlorn beggar ſtretched on the threſhold, conſumed by filth and diſeaſe, and the blooming beauty who avoids while ſhe ſuccours him, the offering of humanity ſcarcely expiates the involuntary diſguſt; yet ſuch is the weakneſs of our nature, that there exiſts a degree of miſery againſt which one's ſenſes are not proof, and benevolence itſelf revoltſ at the appearance of the poor of Arras.—Theſe are not the cold and faſtidious reflections of an unfeeling mind—they are not made without pain: nor have I often felt the want of riches and conſequence ſo much aſ in my incapacity to promote ſome means of permanent and ſubſtantial remedy for the evils I have been deſcribing. I have frequently enquired the cauſe of this ſingular miſery, but can only learn that it always haſ been ſo. I fear it is, that the poor are without energy, and the rich without generoſity. The decay of manufactures ſince the laſt century muſt have reduced many families to indigence. Theſe have been able to ſubſiſt on the refuſe of luxury, but, too ſupine for exertion, they have ſought for nothing more; while the great, diſcharging their conſcienceſ with the ſuperfluity of what adminiſtered to their pride, foſtered the evil, inſtead of endeavouring to remedy it. But the benevolence of the French is not often active, nor extenſive; it is more frequently a religious duty than a ſentiment. They content themſelves with affording a mere exiſtence to wretchedneſs; and are almoſt ſtrangers to thoſe enlightened and generous efforts which act beyond the moment, and ſeek not only to relieve poverty, but to baniſh it. Thus, through the frigid and indolent charity of the rich, the miſery which was at firſt accidental is perpetuated, beggary and idleneſs become habitual, and are tranſmitted, like more fortunate inheritances, from one generation to another.—This is not a mere conjecture—I have liſtened to the hiſtorieſ of many of theſe unhappy outcaſts, who were more than thirty years old, and they have all told me, they were born in the ſtate in which I beheld them, and that they did not remember to have heard that their parentſ were in any other. The National Aſſembly profeſs to effectuate an entire regeneration of the country, and to eradicate all evils, moral, phyſical, and political. I heartily wiſh the numerous and miſerable poor, with which Arras abounds, may become one of the firſt objects of reform; and that a nation which boaſts itſelf the moſt poliſhed, the moſt powerful, and the moſt philoſophic in the world, may not offer to the view ſo many objects ſhocking to humanity.
The citadel of Arras is very ſtrong, and, as I am told, the chef d'oeuvre of Vauban; but placed with ſo little judgement, that the military call it la belle inutile [the uſeleſs beauty]. It is now uninhabited, and wears an appearance of deſolation—the commandant and all the officers of the ancient government having been forced to abandon it; their houſeſ alſo are much damaged, and the gardens entirely deſtroyed.—I never heard that this popular commotion had any other motive than the general war of the new doctrines on the old.
I am ſorry to ſee that moſt of the volunteers who go to join the army are either old men or boys, tempted by extraordinary pay and ſcarcity of employ. A cobler who has been uſed to rear canary-birds for Mad. de ____, brought us this morning all the birds he was poſſeſſed of, and told us he was going to-morrow to the frontiers. We aſked him why, at hiſ age, he ſhould think of joining the army. He ſaid, he had already ſerved, and that there were a few months unexpired of the time that would entitle him to his penſion.—"Yes; but in the mean while you may get killed; and then of what ſervice will your claim to a penſion be?"— "N'ayez pas peur, Madame—Je me menagerai bien—on ne ſe bat pas pour ceſ gueux la comme pour ſon Roi."*
* "No fear of that, Madam—I'll take good care of myſelf: a man doeſ not fight for ſuch beggarly raſcals as theſe as he would for hiſ King."
M. de ____ is juſt returned from the camp of Maulde, where he has been to ſee his ſon. He ſays, there is great diſorder and want of diſcipline, and that by ſome means or other the common ſoldiers abound more in money, and game higher, than their officers. There are two young women, inhabitants of the town of St. Amand, who go conſtantly out on all ſkirmiſhing parties, exerciſe daily with the men, and have killed ſeveral of the enemy. They are both pretty—one only ſixteen, the other a year or two older. Mr. de ____ ſaw them as they were juſt returning from a reconnoitring party. Perhaps I ought to have been aſhamed after thiſ recital to decline an invitation from Mr. de R___'s ſon to dine with him at the camp; but I cannot but feel that I am an extreme coward, and that I ſhould eat with no appetite in ſight of an Auſtrian army. The very idea of theſe modern Camillas terrifies me—their creation ſeems an error of nature.*
* Their name was Fernig; they were natives of St. Amand, and of no remarkable origin. They followed Dumouriez into Flanders, where they ſignalized themſelves greatly, and became Aides-de-Camp to that General. At the time of his defection, one of them was ſhot by a ſoldier, whoſe regiment ſhe was endeavouring to gain over. Their houſe having been razed by the Auſtrians at the beginning of the war, was rebuilt at the expence of the nation; but, upon their participation in Dumouriez' treachery, a ſecond decree of the Aſſembly again levelled it with the ground.
Our hoſt, whoſe politeneſs is indefatigable, accompanied us a few dayſ ago to St. Eloy, a large and magnificent abbey, about ſix miles from Arras. It is built on a terrace, which commands the ſurrounding country as far as Douay; and I think I counted an hundred and fifty ſteps from the houſe to the bottom of the garden, which is on a level with the road. The cloiſters are paved with marble, and the church neat and beautiful beyond deſcription. The iron work of the choir imitates flowers and foliage with ſo much taſte and delicacy, that (but for the colour) one would rather ſuppoſe it to be ſoil, than any durable material.—The monkſ ſtill remain, and although the decree has paſſed for their ſuppreſſion, they cannot ſuppoſe it will take place. They are moſtly old men, and, though I am no friend to theſe inſtitutions, they were ſo polite and hoſpitable that I could not help wiſhing they were permitted, according to the deſign of the firſt Aſſembly, to die in their habitationſ— eſpecially as the ſituation of St. Eloy renders the building uſeleſs for any other purpoſe.—A friend of Mr. de ____ has a charming country-houſe near the abbey, which he has been obliged to deny himſelf the enjoyment of, during the greateſt part of the ſummer; for whenever the family return to Arras, their perſons and their carriage are ſearched at the gate, as ſtrictly as though they were ſmugglers juſt arrived from the coaſt, under the pretence that they may aſſiſt the religious of St. Eloy in ſecuring ſome of their property, previous to the final ſeizure.
I obſerve, in walking the ſtreets here, that the common people ſtill retain much of the Spaniſh caſt of features: the women are remarkably plain, and appear ſtill more ſo by wearing faals. The faal is about two ells of black ſilk or ſtuff, which is hung, without taſte or form, on the head, and is extremely unbecoming: but it is worn only by the lower claſs, or by the aged and devotees.
I am a very voluminous correſpondent, but if I tire you, it is a proper puniſhment for your inſincerity in deſiring me to continue ſo. I have heard of a governor of one of our Weſt India iſlands who was univerſally deteſted by its inhabitants, but who, on going to England, found no difficulty in procuring addreſſes expreſſive of approbation and eſteem. The conſequence was, he came back and continued governor for life.—Do you make the application of my anecdote, and I ſhall perſevere in ſcribbling.—Every Yours.
Arras.
It is not faſhionable at preſent to frequent any public place; but as we are ſtrangers, and of no party, we often paſs our evenings at the theatre. I am fond of it—not ſo much on account of the repreſentation, as of the opportunity which it affords for obſerving the diſpoſitions of the people, and the bias intended to be given them. The ſtage is now become a kind of political ſchool, where the people are taught hatred to Kings, Nobility, and Clergy, according as the perſecution of the moment requires; and, I think, one may often judge from new pieces the meditated ſacrifice. A year ago, all the ſad catalogue of human errors were perſonified in Counts and Marquiſſes; they were not repreſented aſ individuals whom wealth and power had made ſomething too proud, and much too luxurious, but as an order of monſters, whoſe exiſtence, independently of their characters, was a crime, and whoſe hereditary poſſeſſions alone implied a guilt, not to be expiated but by the forfeiture of them. This, you will ſay, was not very judicious; and that by eſtabliſhing a ſort of incompatibility of virtue with titular diſtinctions, the odium was tranſferred from the living to the dead—from thoſe who poſſeſſed theſe diſtinctions to thoſe who inſtituted them. But, unfortunately, the French were diſpoſed to find their nobleſſe culpable, and to reject every thing which tended to excuſe or favour them. The hauteur of the nobleſſe acted as a fatal equivalent to every other crime; and many, who did not credit other imputations, rejoiced in the humiliation of their pride. The people, the rich merchants, and even the leſſer gentry, all eagerly concurred in the deſtruction of an order that had diſdained or excluded them; and, perhaps, of all the innovationſ which have taken place, the abolition of rank has excited the leaſt intereſt.
It is now leſs neceſſary to blacken the nobleſſe, and the compoſitions of the day are directed againſt the Throne, the Clergy, and Monaſtic Orders. All the tyrants of paſt ages are brought from the ſhelves of faction and pedantry, and aſſimilated to the mild and circumſcribed monarchs of modern Europe. The doctrine of popular ſovereignty is artfully inſtilled, and the people are ſtimulated to exert a power which they muſt implicitly delegate to thoſe who have duped and miſled them. The frenzy of a mob is repreſented as the ſublimeſt effort of patriotiſm; and ambition and revenge, uſurping the title of national juſtice, immolate their victims with applauſe. The tendency of ſuch pieces is too obvious; and they may, perhaps, ſucceed in familiarizing the minds of the people to events which, a few months ago, would have filled them with horror. There are alſo numerous theatrical exhibitions, preparatory to the removal of the nuns from their convents, and to the baniſhment of the prieſts. Ancient prejudices are not yet obliterated, and I believe ſome pains have been taken to juſtify theſe perſecutions by calumny. The hiſtory of our diſſolution of the monaſteries has been ranſacked for ſcandal, and the bigotry and biaſes of all countries are reduced into abſtracts, and expoſed on the ſtage. The moſt implacable revenge, the moſt refined malice, the extremes of avarice and cruelty, are wrought into tragedies, and diſplayed as acting under the maſk of religion and the impunity of a cloiſter; while operas and farces, with ridicule ſtill more ſucceſſful, exhibit convents as the abode of licentiouſneſs, intrigue, and ſuperſtition.
Theſe efforts have been ſufficiently ſucceſſful—not from the merit of the pieces, but from the novelty of the ſubject. The people in general were ſtrangers to the interior of convents: they beheld them with that kind of reſpect which is uſually produced in uninformed minds by myſtery and prohibition. Even the monaſtic habit was ſacred from dramatic uſes; ſo that a repreſentation of cloiſters, monks, and nuns, their coſtumeſ and manners, never fails to attract the multitude.—But the ſame cauſe which renders them curious, makes them credulous. Thoſe who have ſeen no farther than the Grille, and thoſe who have been educated in convents, are equally unqualified to judge of the lives of the religious; and their minds, having no internal conviction or knowledge of the truth, eaſily become the converts of ſlander and falſehood.
I cannot help thinking, that there is ſomething mean and cruel in thiſ procedure. If policy demand the ſacrifice, it does not require that the victims ſhould be rendered odious; and if it be neceſſary to diſpoſſeſſ them of their habitations, they ought not, at the moment they are thrown upon the world, to be painted as monſters unworthy of its pity or protection. It is the cowardice of the aſſaſſin, who murders before he dares to rob.
This cuſtom of making public amuſements ſubſervient to party, has, I doubt not, much contributed to the deſtruction of all againſt whom it haſ been employed; and theatrical calumny ſeems to be always the harbinger of approaching ruin to its object; yet this is not the greateſt evil which may ariſe from theſe inſidious politicſ—they are equally unfavourable both to the morals and taſte of the people; the firſt are injured beyond calculation, and the latter corrupted beyond amendment. The orders of ſociety, which formerly inſpired reſpect or veneration, are now debaſed and exploded; and mankind, once taught to ſee nothing but vice and hypocriſy in thoſe whom they had been accuſtomed to regard as models of virtue, are eaſily led to doubt the very exiſtence of virtue itſelf: they know not where to turn for either inſtruction or example; no proſpect iſ offered to them but the dreary and uncomfortable view of general depravity; and the individual is no longer encouraged to ſtruggle with vicious propenſities, when he concludes them irreſiſtibly inherent in hiſ nature. Perhaps it was not poſſible to imagine principles at once ſo ſeductive and ruinous as thoſe now diſſeminated. How are the morals of the people to reſiſt a doctrine which teaches them that the rich only can be criminal, and that poverty is a ſubſtitute for virtue—that wealth iſ holden by the ſufferance of thoſe who do not poſſeſs it—and that he who is the frequenter of a club, or the applauder of a party, is exempt from the duties of his ſtation, and has a right to inſult and oppreſs hiſ fellow citizens? All the weakneſſes of humanity are flattered and called to the aid of this pernicious ſyſtem of revolutionary ethics; and if France yet continue in a ſtate of civilization, it is becauſe Providence has not yet abandoned her to the influence of ſuch a ſyſtem.
Taſte is, I repeat it, as little a gainer by the revolution as morals. The pieces which were beſt calculated to form and refine the minds of the people, all abound with maxims of loyalty, with reſpect for religion, and the ſubordinations of civil ſociety. Theſe are all prohibited; and are replaced by fuſtian declamations, tending to promote anarchy and diſcord —by vulgar and immoral farces, and inſidious and flattering panegyricſ on the vices of low life. No drama can ſucceed that is not ſupported by the faction; and this ſupport is to be procured only by vilifying the Throne, the Clergy, and Nobleſſe. This is a ſuccedaneum for literary merit, and thoſe who diſapprove are menaced into ſilence; while the multitude, who do not judge but imitate, applaud with their leaderſ—and thus all their ideas become vitiated, and imbibe the corruption of their favourite amuſement.
I have dwelt on this ſubject longer than I intended; but as I would not be ſuppoſed prejudiced nor precipitate in my aſſertions, I will, by the firſt occaſion, ſend you ſome of the moſt popular farces and tragedies: you may then decide yourſelf upon the tendency; and, by comparing the diſpoſitions of the French before, and within, the laſt two years, you may alſo determine whether or not my concluſions are warranted by fact. Adieu.—Yours.
Arras.
Our countrymen who viſit France for the firſt time—their imaginationſ filled with the epithets which the vanity of one nation has appropriated, and the indulgence of the other ſanctioned—are aſtoniſhed to find thiſ "land of elegance," this refined people, extremely inferior to the Engliſh in all the arts that miniſter to the comfort and accommodation of life. They are ſurprized to feel themſelves ſtarved by the intruſion of all the winds of heaven, or ſmothered by volumes of ſmoke—that no lock will either open or ſhut—that the drawers are all immoveable—and that neither chairs nor tables can be preſerved in equilibrium. In vain do they inquire for a thouſand conveniences which to them ſeem indiſpenſible; they are not to be procured, or even their uſe is unknown: till at length, after a reſidence in a ſcore of houſes, in all of which they obſerve the ſame deficiencies, they begin to grow ſceptical, to doubt the pretended ſuperiority of France, and, perhaps for the firſt time, do juſtice to their own unaſſuming country. It muſt however, be confeſſed, that if the chimnies ſmoke, they are uſually ſurrounded by marble—that the unſtable chair is often covered with ſilk—and that if a room be cold, it is plentifully decked with gilding, pictures, and glaſſes.—In ſhort, a French houſe is generally more ſhowy than convenient, and ſeldom conveys that idea of domeſtic comfort which conſtitutes the luxury of an Engliſhman.
I obſerve, that the moſt prevailing ornaments here are family portraits: almoſt every dwelling, even among the lower kind of tradeſmen, is peopled with theſe enſigns of vanity; and the painters employed on theſe occaſions, however deficient in other requiſites of their art, ſeem to have an unfortunate knack at preſerving likeneſſes. Heads powdered even whiter than the originals, laced waiſtcoats, enormous lappets, and countenances all ingeniouſly diſpoſed ſo as to ſmile at each other, encumber the wainſcot, and diſtreſs the unlucky viſitor, who is obliged to bear teſtimony to the reſemblance. When one ſees whole rooms filled with theſe figures, one cannot help reflecting on the goodneſs of Providence, which thus diſtributes ſelf-love, in proportion as it denieſ thoſe gifts that excite the admiration of others.
You muſt not underſtand what I have ſaid on the furniture of French houſes as applying to thoſe of the nobility or people of extraordinary fortunes, becauſe they are enabled to add the conveniences of other countries to the luxuries of their own. Yet even theſe, in my opinion, have not the uniform elegance of an Engliſh habitation: there is alwayſ ſome diſparity between the workmanſhip and the materialſ—ſome mixture of ſplendour and clumſineſs, and a want of what the painters call keeping; but the houſes of the gentry, the leſſer nobleſſe, and merchants, are, for the moſt part, as I have deſcribed—-abounding in ſilk, marble, glaſſes, and pictures; but ill finiſhed, dirty, and deficient in articleſ of real uſe.—I ſhould, however, notice, that genteel people are cleaner here than in the interior parts of the kingdom. The floors are in general of oak, or ſometimes of brick; but they are always rubbed bright, and have not that filthy appearance which ſo often diſguſts one in French houſes.
The heads of the lower claſſes of people are much diſturbed by theſe new principles of univerſal equality. We enquired of a man we ſaw near a coach this morning if it was hired. "Monſieur—(quoth he—then checking himſelf ſuddenly,)—no, I forgot, I ought not to ſay Monſieur, for they tell me I am equal to any body in the world: yet, after all, I know not well if this may be true; and as I have drunk out all I am worth, I believe I had better go home and begin work again to-morrow." This new diſciple of equality had, indeed, all the appearance of having ſacrificed to the ſucceſs of the cauſe, and was then recovering from a dream of greatneſs which he told us had laſted two days.
Since the day of taking the new oath we have met many equally elevated, though leſs civil. Some are undoubtedly paid, but others will diſtreſſ their families for weeks by this celebration of their new diſcoveries, and muſt, after all, like our intoxicated philoſopher, be obliged to return "to work again to-morrow."
I muſt now bid you adieu—and, in doing ſo, naturally turn my thoughts to that country where the rights of the people conſiſt not of ſterile and metaphyſic declarations, but of real defence and protection. May they for ever remain uninterrupted by the devaſtating chimeras of their neighbours; and if they ſeek reform, may it be moderate and permanent, acceded to reaſon, and not extorted by violence!—Yours, &c.
September 2, 1792.
We were ſo much alarmed at the theatre on Thurſday, that I believe we ſhall not venture again to amuſe ourſelves at the riſk of a ſimilar occurrence. About the middle of the piece, a violent outcry began from all parts of the houſe, and ſeemed to be directed againſt our box; and I perceived Madame Duchene, the Preſidente of the Jacobins, heading the legions of Paradiſe with peculiar animation. You may imagine we were not a little terrified. I anxiouſly examined the dreſs of myſelf and my companions, and obſerving nothing that could offend the affected ſimplicity of the times, prepared to quit the houſe. A friendly voice, however, exerting itſelf above the clamour, informed us that the offenſive objects were a cloak and a ſhawl which hung over the front of the box.—You will ſcarcely ſuppoſe ſuch groſſneſs poſſible among a civilized people; but the fact is, our friends are of the proſcribed claſs, and we were inſulted becauſe in their ſociety.—I have before noticed, that the guards which were ſtationed in the theatre before the revolution are now removed, and a municipal officer, made conſpicuous by his ſcarf, is placed in the middle front box, and, in caſe of any tumult, is empowered to call in the military to his aſſiſtance.
We have this morning been viſiting two objects, which exhibit thiſ country in very different points of view—as the ſeat of wealth, and the abode of poverty. The firſt is the abbey of St. Vaaſt, a moſt ſuperb pile, now inhabited by monks of various orders, but who are preparing to quit it, in obedience to the late decrees. Nothing impreſſes one with a ſtronger idea of the influence of the Clergy, than theſe ſplendid edifices. We ſee them reared amidſt the ſolitude of deſerts, and in the gaiety and miſery of cities; and while they cheer the one and embelliſh the other, they exhibit, in both, monuments of indefatigable labour and immenſe wealth.—The facade of St. Vaaſt is ſimple and ſtriking, and the cloiſters and every other part of the building are extremely handſome. The library is ſuppoſed to be the fineſt in France, except the King's, but is now under the ſeal of the nation. A young monk, who was our Cicerone, told us he was ſorry it was not in his power to ſhow it. "Et nous, Monſieur, nous ſommes faches auſſi."—["And we are not leſs ſorry than yourſelf, Sir.">[
Thus, with the aid of ſignificant looks, and geſtures of diſapprobation, an exchange of ſentiments took place, without a ſingle expreſſion of treaſonable import: both parties underſtood perfectly well, that in regretting that the library was inacceſſible, each included all the circumſtances which attended it.—A new church was building in a ſtyle worthy of the convent—I think, near four hundred feet long; but it waſ diſcontinued at the ſuppreſſion of the religious orders, and will now, of courſe, never be finiſhed.
From this abode of learned caſe and pious indolence Mr. de ____ conducted us to the Mont de Piete, a national inſtitution for lending money to the poor on pledges, (at a moderate intereſt,) which, if not redeemed within a year, are ſold by auction, and the overplus, if there remain any, after deducting the intereſt, is given to the owner of the pledge. Thouſandſ of ſmall packets are depoſited here, which, to the eye of affluence, might ſeem the very refuſe of beggary itſelf.—I could not reflect without an heart-ache, on the diſtreſs of the individual, thus driven to relinquiſh his laſt covering, braving cold to ſatiſfy hunger, and accumulating wretchedneſs by momentary relief. I ſaw, in a lower room, groupes of unfortunate beings, depriving themſelves of different parts of their apparel, and watching with ſolicitude the arbitrary valuations; others exchanging ſome article of neceſſity for one of a ſtill greater— ſome in a ſtate of intoxication, uttering execrations of deſpair; and all exhibiting a picture of human nature depraved and miſerable.—While I waſ viewing this ſcene, I recalled the magnificent building we had juſt left, and my firſt emotions were thoſe of regret and cenſure. When we only feel, and have not leiſure to reflect, we are indignant that vaſt ſumſ ſhould be expended on ſumptuous edifices, and that the poor ſhould live in vice and want; yet the erection of St. Vaaſt muſt have maintained great numbers of induſtrious hands; and perhaps the revenues of the abbey may not, under its new poſſeſſors, be ſo well employed. When the offerings and the tributes to religion are the ſupport of the induſtriouſ poor, it is their beſt appropriation; and he who gives labour for a day, is a more uſeful benefactor than he who maintains in idleneſs for two. —I could not help wiſhing that the poor might no longer be tempted by the facility of a reſource, which perhaps, in moſt inſtances, only increaſes their diſtreſs.—It is an injudicious expedient to palliate an evil, which great national works, and the encouragement of induſtry and manufactures, might eradicate.*
* In times of public commotion people frequently ſend their valuable effects to the Mont de Piete, not only as being ſecure by itſ ſtrength, but as it is reſpected by the people, who are intereſted in its preſervation.
—With theſe reflections I concluded mental peace with the monks of St. Vaaſt, and would, had it depended upon me, have readily comprized the finiſhing their great church in the treaty.
The Primary Aſſemblies have already taken place in this department. We happened to enter a church while the young Robeſpierre was haranguing to an audience, very little reſpectable either in numbers or appearance. They were, however, ſufficiently unanimous, and made up in noiſy applauſe what they wanted in other reſpects. If the electors and elected of other departments be of the ſame complexion with thoſe of Arras, the new Aſſembly will not, in any reſpect, be preferable to the old one. I have reproached many of the people of this place, who, from their education and property, have a right to take an intereſt in the public affairs, with thus ſuffering themſelves to be repreſented by the moſt deſperate and worthleſs individuals of the town. Their defence is, that they are inſulted and overpowered if they attend the popular meetings, and by electing "les gueux et les ſcelerats pour deputes,"* they ſend them to Paris, and ſecure their own local tranquillity.
* The ſcrubs and ſcoundrels for deputies.
—The firſt of theſe aſſertions is but too true, yet I cannot but think the ſecond a very dangerous experiment. They remove theſe turbulent and needy adventurers from the direction of a club to that of government, and procure a partial relief by contributing to the general ruin.
Paris is ſaid to be in extreme fermentation, and we are in ſome anxiety for our friend M. P____, who was to go there from Montmorency laſt week. I ſhall not cloſe my letter till I have heard from him.
September 4.
I reſume my pen after a ſleepleſs night, and with an oppreſſion of mind not to be deſcribed. Paris is the ſcene of proſcription and maſſacres. The priſoners, the clergy, the nobleſſe, all that are ſuppoſed inimical to public faction, or the objects of private revenge, are ſacrificed without mercy. We are here in the utmoſt terror and conſternation—we know not the end nor the extent of theſe horrors, and every one iſ anxious for himſelf or his friends. Our ſociety conſiſts moſtly of females, and we do not venture out, but hover together like the fowls of heaven, when warned by a vague yet inſtinctive dread of the approaching ſtorm. We tremble at the ſound of voices in the ſtreet, and cry, with the agitation of Macbeth, "there's knocking at the gate." I do not indeed envy, but I moſt ſincerely regret, the peace and ſafety of England.—I have no courage to add more, but will encloſe a haſty tranſlation of the letter we received from M. P____, by laſt night'ſ poſt. Humanity cannot comment upon it without ſhuddering.—Ever Yours, &c.
"Rue St. Honore, Sept. 2, 1792.
"In a moment like this, I ſhould be eaſily excuſed a breach of promiſe in not writing; yet when I recollect the apprehenſion which the kindneſs of my amiable friends will feel on my account, I determine, even amidſt the danger and deſolation that ſurround me, to relieve them.—Would to Heaven I had nothing more alarming to communicate than my own ſituation! I may indeed ſuffer by accident; but thouſands of wretched victims are at thiſ moment marked for ſacrifice, and are maſſacred with an execrable imitation of rule and order: a ferocious and cruel multitude, headed by choſen aſſaſſins, are attacking the priſons, forcing the houſes of the nobleſſe and prieſts, and, after a horrid mockery of judicial condemnation, execute them on the ſpot. The tocſin is rung, alarm gunſ are fired, the ſtreets reſound with fearful ſhrieks, and an undefinable ſenſation of terror ſeizes on one's heart. I feel that I have committed an imprudence in venturing to Paris; but the barriers are now ſhut, and I muſt abide the event. I know not to what theſe proſcriptions tend, or if all who are not their advocates are to be their victims; but an ungovernable rage animates the people: many of them have papers in their hands that ſeem to direct them to their objects, to whom they hurry in crouds with an eager and ſavage fury.—I have juſt been obliged to quit my pen. A cart had ſtopped near my lodgings, and my ears were aſſailed by the groans of anguiſh, and the ſhouts of frantic exultation. Uncertain whether to deſcend or remain, I, after a moment's deliberation, concluded it would be better to have ſhown myſelf than to have appeared to avoid it, in caſe the people ſhould enter the houſe, and therefore went down with the beſt ſhow of courage I could aſſume.—I will draw a veil over the ſcene that preſented itſelf—nature revolts, and my fair friends would ſhudder at the detail. Suffice it to ſay, that I ſaw cars, loaded with the dead and dying, and driven by their yet enſanguined murderers; one of whom, in a tone of exultation, cried, 'Here is a glorious day for France!' I endeavoured to aſſent, though with a faultering voice, and, as ſoon as they were paſſed eſcaped to my room. You may imagine I ſhall not eaſily recover the ſhock I received.—At thiſ moment they ſay, the enemy are retreating from Verdun. At any other time this would have been deſirable, but at preſent one knows not what to wiſh for. Moſt probably, the report is only ſpread with the humane hope of appeaſing the mob. They have already twice attacked the Temple; and I tremble leſt this aſylum of fallen majeſty ſhould ere morning, be violated.
"Adieu—I know not if the courier will be permitted to depart; but, as I believe the ſtreets are not more unſafe than the houſes, I ſhall make an attempt to ſend this. I will write again in a few days. If to-morrow ſhould prove calm, I ſhall be engaged in enquiring after the fate of my friends.—I beg my reſpects to Mons. And Mad. de ____; and entreat you all to be as tranquil as ſuch circumſtances will permit.—You may be certain of hearing any news that can give you pleaſure immediately. I have the honour to be," &c. &c.
Arras, September, 1792.
You will in future, I believe, find me but a dull correſpondent. The natural timidity of my diſpoſition, added to the dread which a native of England has of any violation of domeſtic ſecurity, renders me unfit for the ſcenes I am engaged in. I am become ſtupid and melancholy, and my letters will partake of the oppreſſion of my mind.
At Paris, the maſſacres at the priſons are now over, but thoſe in the ſtreets and in private houſes ſtill continue. Scarcely a poſt arriveſ that does not inform M. de ____ of ſome friend or acquaintance being ſacrificed. Heaven knows where this is to end!
We had, for two days, notice that, purſuant to a decree of the Aſſembly, commiſſioners were expected here at night, and that the tocſin would be rung for every body to deliver up their arms. We did not dare go to bed on either of theſe nights, but merely lay down in our robes de chambre, without attempting to ſleep. This dreaded buſineſs is, however, paſt. Parties of the Jacobins paraded the ſtreets yeſterday morning, and diſarmed all they thought proper. I obſerved they had liſts in their hands, and only went to ſuch houſes as have an external appearance of property. Mr. de ____, who has been in the ſervice thirty years, delivered his arms to a boy, who behaved to him with the utmoſt inſolence, whilſt we ſat trembling and almoſt ſenſeleſs with fear the whole time they remained in the houſe; and could I give you an idea of their appearance, you would think my terror very juſtifiable. It is, indeed, ſtrange and alarming, that all who have property ſhould be deprived of the means of defending either that or their lives, at a moment when Paris is giving an example of tumult and aſſaſſination to every other part of the kingdom. Knowing no good reaſon for ſuch procedure, it is very natural to ſuſpect a bad one.—I think, on many accounts, we are more expoſed here than at ____, and as ſoon as we can procure horſes we ſhall depart.—The following is the tranſlation of our laſt letter from Mr. P____.
"I promiſed my kind friends to write as ſoon as I ſhould have any thing ſatiſfactory to communicate: but, alaſ! I have no hope of being the harbinger of any thing but circumſtances of a very different tendency. I can only give you details of the horrors I have already generally deſcribed. Carnage has not yet ceaſed; and is only become more cool and more diſcriminating. All the mild characteriſtics annihilated; and a frantic cruelty, which is dignified with the name of patriotiſm, haſ uſurped ever faculty, and baniſhed both reaſon and mercy.
"Mons. ____, whom I have hitherto known by reputation, as an upright, and even humane man, had a brother ſhut up, with a number of other prieſts, at the Carmes; and, by his ſituation and connections, he has ſuch influence as might, if exerted, have preſerved the latter. The unfortunate brother knowing this, found means, while hourly expecting hiſ fate, to convey a note to Mr. ____, begging he would immediately releaſe, and procure him an aſylum. The meſſenger returned with an anſwer, that Mons. ____ had no relations in the enemies of his country!
"A few hours after, the maſſacres at the Carmes took place.—One Panis,* who is in the Comite de Surveillance, had, a few days previous to theſe dreadful events, become, I know not on what occaſion, the depoſitary of a large ſum of money belonging to a gentleman of his ſection.
* Panis has ſince figured on various occaſions. He is a member of the Convention, and was openly accuſed of having been an accomplice in the robbery of the Garde Meuble.
"A ſecret and frivolous denunciation was made the pretext for throwing the owner of the money into priſon, where he remained till September, when his friends, recollecting his danger, flew to the Committee and applied for his diſcharge. Unfortunately, the only member of the Committee preſent was Panis. He promiſed to take meaſures for an immediate releaſe.—Perhaps he kept his word, but the releaſe was cruel and final—the priſon was attacked, and the victim heard of no more.—You will not be ſurprized at ſuch occurrences when I tell you that G____,* whom you muſt remember to have heard of as a Jacobin at ____, iſ Preſident of the Committee above mentioned—yes, an aſſaſſin is now the protector of the public ſafety, and the commune of Paris the patron of a criminal who has merited the gibbet.
* G____ was afterwards elected (doubtleſs by a recommendation of the Jacobins) Deputy for the department of Finiſterre, to which he waſ ſent Commiſſioner by the Convention. On account of ſome unwarrantable proceedings, and of ſome words that eſcaped him, which gave riſe to a ſuſpicion that he was privy to the robbery of the Garde Meuble, he was arreſted by the municipality of Quimper Corentin, of which place he is a native. The Jacobins applied for his diſcharge, and for the puniſhment of the municipality; but the Convention, who at that time rarely took any deciſive meaſures, ordered G____ to be liberated, but evaded the other part of the petition which tended to revenge him. The affair of the Garde Meuble, was, however, again brought forward; but, moſt probably, many of the members had reaſons for not diſcuſſing too nearly the accuſation againſt G____; and thoſe who were not intereſted in ſuppreſſing it, were too weak or too timid to purſue it farther.
"—I know not if we are yet arrived at the climax of woe and iniquity, but Briſſot, Condorcet, Rolland, &c. and all thoſe whoſe principles you have reprobated as violent and dangerous, will now form the moderate ſide of the Aſſembly. Perhaps even thoſe who are now the party moſt dreaded, may one day give place to yet more deſperate leaders, and become in their turn our beſt alternative. What will then be the ſituation of France? Who can reflect without trembling at the proſpect?—It is not yet ſafe to walk the ſtreets decently dreſſed; and I have been obliged to ſupply myſelf with trowſers, a jacket, coloured neckcloths, and coarſe linen, which I take care to ſoil before I venture out.
"The Agrarian law is now the moral of Paris, and I had nearly loſt my life yeſterday by tearing a placard written in ſupport of it. I did it imprudently, not ſuppoſing I was obſerved; and had not ſome people, known as Jacobins, come up and interfered in my behalf, the conſequence might have been fatal.—It would be difficult, and even impoſſible, to attempt a deſcription of the manners of the people of Paris at this moment: the licentiouſneſs common to great cities is decency compared with what prevails in this; it has features of a peculiar and ſtriking deſcription, and the general expreſſion is that of a monſtrous union of oppoſite vices. Alternately diſſolute and cruel, gay and vindictive, the Pariſian vaunts amidſt debauchery the triumph of aſſaſſination, and enlivens hiſ midnight orgies by recounting the ſufferings of the maſſacred ariſtocrates: women, whoſe profeſſion it is to pleaſe, aſſume the bonnet rouge [red cap], and affect, as a means of ſeduction, an intrepid and ferocious courage.—I cannot yet learn if Mons. S____'s ſiſter be alive; her ſituation about the Queen makes it too doubtful; but endeavour to give him hope—many may have eſcaped whoſe fears ſtill detain them in concealment. People of the firſt rank now inhabit garrets and cellars, and thoſe who appear are diſguiſed beyond recollection; ſo that I do not deſpair of the ſafety of ſome, who are now thought to have periſhed.— I am, as you may ſuppoſe, in haſte to leave this place, and I hope to return to Montmorency tomorrow; but every body is ſoliciting paſſports. The Hotel de Ville is beſieged, and I have already attended two dayſ without ſucceſs.—I beg my reſpectful homage to Monſieur and Madame de ____; and I have the honour to be, with eſteem, the affectionate ſervant of my friends in general.
"L____."
You will read M. L____'s letter with all the grief and indignation we have already felt, and I will make no comment on it, but to give you a ſlight ſketch of the hiſtory of Guermeur, whom he mentions as being Preſident of the Committee of Surveillance.—In the abſence of a man, whom he called his friend, he ſeduced his wife, and eloped with her: the huſband overtook them, and fell in the diſpute which inſued; when Guermeur, to avoid being taken by the officers of juſtice, abandoned hiſ companion to her fate, and eſcaped alone. After a variety of adventures, he at length enliſted himſelf as a grenadier in the regiment of Dillon. With much aſſurance, and talents cultivated above the ſituation in which he appeared, he became popular amongſt his fellow-ſoldiers, and the military impunity, which is one effect of the revolution, caſt a veil over his former guilt, or rather indeed enabled him to defy the puniſhment annexed to it. When the regiment was quartered at ____, he frequented and harangued at the Jacobin club, perverted the minds of the ſoldiers by ſeditious addreſſes, till at length he was deemed qualified to quit the character of a ſubordinate incendiary, and figure amongſt the aſſaſſins at Paris. He had hitherto, I believe, acted without pay, for he was deeply in debt, and without money or clothes; but a few dayſ previous to the tenth of Auguſt, a leader of the Jacobins ſupplied him with both, paid his debts, procured his diſcharge, and ſent him to Paris. What intermediate gradations he may have paſſed through, I know not; but it is not difficult to imagine the ſervices that have advanced him to hiſ preſent ſituation.—It would be unſafe to riſk this letter by the poſt, and I cloſe it haſtily to avail myſelf of a preſent conveyance.—I remain, Yours, &c.
Arras, September 14, 1792.
The camp of Maulde is broken up, and we deferred our journey, that we might paſs a day at Douay with M. de ____'s ſon. The road within ſome miles of that place is covered with corn and forage, the immediate environs are begun to be inundated, and every thing wears the appearance of impending hoſtility. The town is ſo full of troops, that without the intereſt of our military friends we ſhould ſcarcely have procured a lodging. All was buſtle and confuſion, the enemy are very near, and the French are preparing to form a camp under the walls. Amidſt all this, we found it difficult to ſatiſfy our curioſity in viewing the churches and pictures: ſome of the former are ſhut, and the latter concealed; we therefore contented ourſelves with ſeeing the principal ones.
The town-houſe is a very handſome building, where the Parliament waſ holden previous to the revolution, and where all the buſineſs of the department of the North is now tranſacted.—In the council-chamber, which is very elegantly carved, was alſo a picture of the preſent King. They were, at the very moment of our entrance, in the act of diſplacing it. We aſked the reaſon, and were told it was to be cut in pieces, and portions ſent to the different popular ſocieties.—I know not if our features betrayed the indignation we feared to expreſs, but the man who ſeemed to have directed this diſpoſal of the portrait, told us we were not Engliſh if we ſaw it with regret. I was not much delighted with ſuch a compliment to our country, and was glad to eſcape without farther comment.
The manners of the people ſeem every where much changed, and are becoming groſs and inhuman. While we were walking on the ramparts, I happened to have occaſion to take down an addreſs, and with the paper and pencil in my hand turned out of the direct path to obſerve a chapel on one ſide of it. In a moment I was alarmed by the cries of my companions, and beheld the muſquet of the centinel pointed at me, and M. de ____ expoſtulating with him. I am not certain if he ſuppoſed I was taking a plan of the fortifications, and meant really more than a threat; but I waſ ſufficiently frightened, and ſhall not again approach a town wall with pencils and paper.
M. de ____ is one of the only ſix officers of his regiment who have not emigrated. With an indignation heated by the works of modern philoſophers into an enthuſiaſtic love of republican governments, and irritated by the contempt and oppoſition he has met with from thoſe of this own claſs who entertain different principles, he is now become almoſt a fanatic. What at firſt was only a political opinion is now a religious tenet; and the moderate ſectary has acquired the obſtinacy of a martyr, and, perhaps, the ſpirit of perſecution. At the beginning of the revolution, the neceſſity of deciding, a youthful ardour for liberty, and the deſire of preſerving his fortune, probably determined him to become a patriot; and pride and reſentment have given ſtability to notions which might otherwiſe have fluctuated with circumſtances, or yielded to time. This is but too general the caſe: the friends of rational reform, and the ſupporters of the ancient monarchy, have too deeply offended each other for pardon or confidence; and the country perhaps will be ſacrificed by the mutual deſertions of thoſe moſt concerned in its preſervation. Actuated only by ſelfiſhneſs and revenge, each party willingly conſentſ to the ruin of its opponents. The Clergy, already divided among themſelves, are abandoned by the Nobleſſe—the Nobleſſe are perſecuted by the commercial intereſt—and, in ſhort, the only union is amongſt the Jacobins; that is, amongſt a few weak perſons who are deceived, and a banditti who betray and profit by their "patriotiſm."
I was led to theſe reflections by my converſation with Mr. de L____ and his companions. I believe they do not approve of the preſent extremes, yet they expreſſed themſelves with the utmoſt virulence againſt the ariſtocrates, and would hear neither of reconcilement nor palliation. On the other hand, theſe diſpoſitions were not altogether unprovoked—the young men had been perſecuted by their relations, and baniſhed the ſociety of their acquaintance; and their political opinions had acted aſ an univerſal proſcription. There were even ſome againſt whom the doorſ of the parental habitation were ſhut.—Theſe party violences are terrible; and I was happy to perceive that the reciprocal claims of duty and affection were not diminiſhed by them, either in M. de ____, or hiſ ſon. He, however, at firſt refuſed to come to A____, becauſe he ſuſpected the patriotiſm of our ſociety. I pleaded, as an inducement, the beauty of Mad. G____, but he told me ſhe was an ariſtocrate. It waſ at length, however, determined, that he ſhould dine with us laſt Sunday, and that all viſitors ſhould be excluded. He was prevented coming by being ordered out with a party the day we left him; and he has written to us in high ſpirits, to ſay, that, beſides fulfilling his object, he had returned with fifty priſoners.
We had a very narrow eſcape in coming home—the Hulans were at the village of ____, an hour after we paſſed through it, and treated the poor inhabitants, as they uſually do, with great inhumanity.—Nothing haſ alienated the minds of the people ſo much as the cruelties of theſe troopſ—they plunder and ill treat all they encounter; and their avarice is even leſs inſatiable than their barbarity. How hard is it, that the ambition of the Chiefs, and the wickedneſs of faction, ſhould thus fall upon the innocent cottager, who perhaps is equally a ſtranger to the names of the one, and the principles of the other!
The public papers will now inform you, that the French are at liberty to obtain a divorce on almoſt any pretext, or even on no pretext at all, except what many may think a very good one—mutual agreement. A lady of our acquaintance here is become a republican in conſequence of the decree, and probably will very ſoon avail herſelf of it; but thiſ conduct, I conceive, will not be very general.
Much has been ſaid of the gallantry of the French ladies, and not entirely without reaſon; yet, though ſometimes inconſtant wives, they are, for the moſt part, faithful friendſ—they ſacrifice the huſband without forſaking him, and their common intereſt is always promoted with as much zeal as the moſt inviolable attachment could inſpire. Mad. de C____, whom we often meet in company, is the wife of an emigrant, and iſ ſaid not to be abſolutely diſconſolate at his abſence; yet ſhe iſ indefatigable in her efforts to ſupply him with money: ſhe even riſks her ſafety by her ſolicitude, and has juſt now prevailed on her favourite admirer to haſten his departure for the frontiers, in order to convey a ſum ſhe has with much difficulty been raiſing. Such inſtances are, I believe, not very rare; and as a Frenchman uſually prefers his intereſt to every thing elſe, and is not quite ſo unaccommodating as an Engliſhman, an amicable arrangement takes place, and one ſeldom hears of a ſeparation.
The inhabitants of Arras, with all their patriotiſm, are extremely averſe from the aſſignats; and it is with great reluctance that they conſent to receive them at two-thirds of their nominal value. This diſcredit of the paper money has been now two months at a ſtand, and its riſe or fall will be determined by the ſucceſs of the campaign.—I bid you adieu for the laſt time from hence. We have already exceeded the propoſed length of our viſit, and ſhall ſet out for St. Omer to-morrow.—Yours.
St. Omer, September, 1792.
I am confined to my room by a ſlight indiſpoſition, and, inſtead of accompanying my friends, have taken up my pen to inform you that we are thus far ſafe on our journey.—Do not, becauſe you are ſurrounded by a protecting element, ſmile at the idea of travelling forty or fifty mileſ in ſafety. The light troops of the Auſtrian army penetrate ſo far, that none of the roads on the frontier are entirely free from danger. My female companions were alarmed the whole day—the young for their baggage, and the old for themſelves.
The country between this and Arras has the appearance of a garden cultivated for the common uſe of its inhabitants, and has all the fertility and beauty of which a flat ſurface is ſuſceptible. Bethune and Aire I ſhould ſuppoſe ſtrongly fortified. I did not fail, in paſſing through the former, to recollect with veneration the faithful miniſter of Henry the Fourth. The miſfortunes of the deſcendant of Henry, whom Sully* loved, and the ſtate of the kingdom he ſo much cheriſhed, made a ſtronger impreſſion on me than uſual, and I mingled with the tribute of reſpect a ſentiment of indignation.
* Maximilien de Bethune, Duc de Sully.
What perverſe and malignant influence can have excited the people either to incur or to ſuffer their preſent ſituation? Were we not well acquainted with the arts of factions, the activity of bad men, and the effect of their union, I ſhould be almoſt tempted to believe this change in the French ſupernatural. Leſs than three years ago, the name of Henri Quatre was not uttered without enthuſiaſm. The piece that tranſmitted the ſlighteſt anecdotes of his life was certain of ſucceſſ—the air that celebrated him was liſtened to with delight—and the decorations of beauty, when aſſociated with the idea of this gallant Monarch, became more irreſiſtible.*
* At this time it was the prevailing faſhion to call any new inventions of female dreſs after his name, and to decorate the ornamental parts of furniture with his reſemblance.
Yet Henry the Fourth is now a tyrant—his pictures and ſtatues are deſtroyed, and his memory is execrated!—Thoſe who have reduced the French to this are, doubtleſs, baſe and deſigning intriguers; yet I cannot acquit the people, who are thus wrought on, of unfeelingneſs and levity.—England has had its revolutions; but the names of Henry the Fifth and Elizabeth were ſtill revered: and the regal monuments, which ſtill exiſt, after all the viciſſitudes of our political principles, atteſt the mildneſs of the Engliſh republicans.
The laſt days of our ſtay at Arras were embittered by the diſtreſs of our neighbour and acquaintance, Madame de B____. She has loſt two ſons under circumſtances ſo affecting, that I think you will be intereſted in the relation.—The two young men were in the army, and quartered at Perpignan, at a time when ſome effort of counter-revolution was ſaid to be intended. One of them was arreſted as being concerned, and the other ſurrendered himſelf priſoner to accompany his brother.—When the High Court at Orleans was inſtituted for trying ſtate-priſoners, thoſe of Perpignan were ordered to be conducted there, and the two B____'s, chained together, were taken with the reſt. On their arrival at Orleans, their gaoler had miſlaid the key that unlocked their fetters, and, not finding it immediately, the young men produced one, which anſwered the purpoſe, and releaſed themſelves. The gaoler looked at them with ſurprize, and aſked why, with ſuch a means in their power, they had not eſcaped in the night, or on the road. They replied, becauſe they were not culpable, and had no reaſon for avoiding a trial that would manifeſt their innocence. Their heroiſm was fatal. They were brought, by a decree of the Convention, from Orleans to Verſailles, (on their way to Paris,) where they were met by the mob, and maſſacred.
Their unfortunate mother is yet ignorant of their fate; but we left her in a ſtate little preferable to that which will be the effect of certainty. She ſaw the decree for tranſporting the priſoners from Orleans, and all accounts of the reſult have been carefully concealed from her; yet her anxious and enquiring looks at all who approach her, indicate but too well her ſuſpicion of the truth.—Mons. de ____'ſ ſituation is indeſcribable. Informed of the death of his ſons, he is yet obliged to conceal his ſufferings, and wear an appearance of tranquillity in the preſence of his wife. Sometimes he eſcapes, when unable to contain his emotions any longer, and remains at M. de ____'s till he recovers himſelf. He takes no notice of the ſubject of his grief, and we reſpect it too much to attempt to conſole him. The laſt time I aſked him after Madame de ____, he told me her ſpirits were ſomething better, and, added he, in a voice almoſt ſuffocated, "She is amuſing herſelf with working neckcloths for her ſonſ!"—When you reflect that the maſſacres at Paris took place on the ſecond and third of September, and that the decree was paſſed to bring the priſoners from Orleans (where they were in ſafety) on the tenth, I can ſay nothing that will add to the horror of this tranſaction, or to your deteſtation of its cauſe. Sixty-two, moſtly people of high rank, fell victims to this barbarous policy: they were brought in a fort of covered waggons, and were murdered in heaps without being taken out.*
* Perhaps the reader will be pleaſed at a diſcovery, which it would have been unſafe to mention when made, or in the courſe of thiſ correſpondence. The two young men here alluded to arrived at Verſailles, chained together, with their fellow-priſoners. Surprize, perhaps admiration, had diverted the gaoler's attention from demanding the key that opened their padlock, and it was ſtill in their poſſeſſion. On entering Verſailles, and obſerving the crowd preparing to attack them, they diveſted themſelves of their fetters, and of every other incumbrance. In a few moments their carriages were ſurrounded, their companions at one end were already murdered, and themſelves ſlightly wounded; but the confuſion increaſing, they darted amidſt the croud, and were in a moment undiſtinguiſhable. They were afterwards taken under the protection of an humane magiſtrate, who concealed them for ſome time, and they are now in perfect ſecurity. They were the only two of the whole number that eſcaped.
September, 1792.
We paſſed a country ſo barren and unintereſting yeſterday, that even a profeſſional traveller could not have made a ſingle page of it. It was, in every thing, a perfect contraſt to the rich plains of Artoiſ— unfertile, neglected vallies and hills, miſerable farms, ſtill more miſerable cottages, and ſcarcely any appearance of population. The only place where we could refreſh the horſes was a ſmall houſe, over the door of which was the pompous deſignation of Hotel d'Angleterre. I know not if this be intended as a ridicule on our country, or as an attraction to our countrymen, but I, however, found ſomething beſides the appellation which reminded me of England, and which one does not often find in houſeſ of a better outſide; for though the rooms were ſmall, and only two in number, they were very clean, and the hoſteſs was neat and civil. The Hotel d'Angleterre, indeed, was not luxuriouſly ſupplied, and the whole of our repaſt was eggs and tea, which we had brought with us.—In the next room to that we occupied were two priſoners chained, whom the officers were conveying to Arras, for the purpoſe of better ſecurity. The ſecret hiſtory of this buſineſs is worth relating, as it marks the character of the moment, and the aſcendancy which the Jacobins are daily acquiring.
Theſe men were apprehended as ſmugglers, under circumſtances of peculiar atrocity, and committed to the gaol at ____. A few days after, a young girl, of bad character, who has much influence at the club, made a motion, that the people, in a body, ſhould demand the releaſe of the priſoners. The motion was carried, and the Hotel de Ville aſſailed by a formidable troop of ſailors, fiſh-women, &c.—The municipality refuſed to comply, the Garde Nationale was called out, and, on the mob perſiſting, fired over their heads, wounded a few, and the reſt diſperſed of themſelves.—Now you muſt underſtand, the latent motive of all this waſ two thouſand livres promiſed to one of the Jacobin leaders, if he ſucceeded in procuring the men their liberty.—I do not advance thiſ merely on conjecture. The fact is well known to the municipality; and the decent part of it would willingly have expelled this man, who is one of their members, but that they found themſelves too weak to engage in a ſerious quarrel with the Jacobins.—One cannot reflect, without apprehenſion, that any ſociety ſhould exiſt which can oppoſe the execution of the laws with impunity, or that a people, who are little ſenſible of realities, ſhould be thus abuſed by names. They ſuffer, with unfeeling patience, a thouſand enormitieſ—yet blindly riſk their liberties and lives to promote the deſigns of an adventurer, becauſe he harangues at a club, and calls himſelf a patriot.—I have juſt received advice that my friends have left Lauſanne, and are on their way to Paris. Our firſt plan of paſſing the winter there will be imprudent, if not impracticable, and we have concluded to take a houſe for the winter ſix months at Amiens, Chantilly, or ſome place which has the reputation of being quiet. I have already ordered enquiries to be made, and ſhall ſet out with Mrs. ____ in a day or two for Amiens. I may, perhaps, not write till our return; but ſhall not ceaſe to be, with great truth.—Yours, &c.
Amiens, 1792.
The departement de la Somme has the reputation of being a little ariſtocratic. I know not how far this be merited, but the people are certainly not enthuſiaſts. The villages we paſſed on our road hither were very different from thoſe on the frontierſ—we were hailed by no popular ſounds, no cries of Vive la nation! except from here and there ſome ragged boy in a red cap, who, from habit, aſſociated this ſalutation with the appearance of a carriage. In every place where there are half a dozen houſes is planted an unthriving tree of liberty, which ſeems to wither under the baneful influence of the bonnet rouge. [The red cap.] This Jacobin attribute is made of materials to reſiſt the weather, and may laſt ſome time; but the trees of liberty, being planted unſeaſonably, are already dead. I hope this will not prove emblematic, and that the power of the Jacobins may not outlive the freedom of the people.
The Convention begin their labours under diſagreeable auſpices. A general terror ſeems to have ſeized on the Pariſians, the roads are covered with carriages, and the inns filled with travellers. A new regulation has juſt taken place, apparently intended to check thiſ reſtleſs ſpirit. At Abbeville, though we arrived late and were fatigued, we were taken to the municipality, our paſſports collated with our perſons, and at the inn we were obliged to inſert in a book our names, the place of our birth, from whence we came, and where we were going. This, you will ſay, has more the features of a mature Inquiſition, than a new-born Republic; but the French have different notions of liberty from yours, and take theſe things very quietly.—At Flixecourt we eat out of pewter ſpoons, and the people told us, with much inquietude, that they had ſold their plate, in expectation of a decree of the Convention to take it from them. This decree, however, has not paſſed, but the alarm is univerſal, and does not imply any great confidence in the new government.
I have had much difficulty in executing my commiſſion, and have at laſt fixed upon a houſe, of which I fear my friends will not approve; but the panic which depopulates Paris, the bombardment of Liſle, and the tranquillity which has hitherto prevailed here, has filled the town, and rendered every kind of habitation ſcarce, and extravagantly dear: for you muſt remark, that though the Amienois are all ariſtocrates, yet when an intimidated ſufferer of the ſame party flies from Paris, and ſeeks an aſylum amongſt them, they calculate with much exactitude what they ſuppoſe neceſſity may compel him to give, and will not take a livre leſs.—The rent of houſes and lodgings, like the national funds, riſeſ and falls with the public diſtreſſes, and, like them, is an object of ſpeculation: ſeveral perſons to whom we were addreſſed were extremely indifferent about letting their houſes, alledging as a reaſon, that if the diſorders of Paris ſhould increaſe, they had no doubt of letting them to much greater advantage.
We were at the theatre laſt night—it was opened for the firſt time ſince France has been declared a republic, and the Jacobins vociferated loudly to have the fleur de lys, ad other regal emblems, effaced. Obedience waſ no ſooner promiſed to this command, than it was ſucceeded by another not quite ſo eaſily complied with—they inſiſted on having the Marſelloiſ Hymn ſung. In vain did the manager, with a ludicrous ſort of terror, declare, that there were none of his company who had any voice, or who knew either the words of the muſic of the hymn in queſtion. "C'eſt egal, il faut chanter," ["No matter for that, they muſt ſing.">[ reſounded from all the patriots in the houſe. At laſt, finding the thing impoſſible, they agreed to a compromiſe; and one of the actors promiſed to ſing it on the morrow, as well as the trifling impediment of having no voice would permit him.—You think your galleries deſpotic when they call for an epilogue that is forgotten, and the actreſs who ſhould ſpeak it iſ undreſt; or when they inſiſt upon enlivening the laſt acts of Jane Shore with Roaſt Beef! What would you think if they would not diſpenſe with a hornpipe on the tight-rope by Mrs. Webb? Yet, bating the danger, I aſſure you, the audience of Amiens was equally unreaſonable. But liberty at preſent ſeems to be in an undefined ſtate; and until our rulers ſhall have determined what it is, the matter will continue to be ſettled as it is now—by each man uſurping as large a portion of tyranny as hiſ ſituation will admit of. He who ſubmits without repining to hiſ diſtrict, to his municipality, or even to the club, domineers at the theatre, or exerciſes in the ſtreet a manual cenſure on ariſtocratic apparel.*
*It was common at this time to inſult women in the ſtreets if dreſſed too well, or in colours the people choſe to call ariſtocratic. I was myſelf nearly thrown down for having on a ſtraw bonnet with green ribbons.
Our embarraſſment for ſmall change is renewed: many of the communes who had iſſued bills of five, ten, and fifteen ſols, repayable in aſſignats, are become bankrupts, which circumſtance has thrown ſuch a diſcredit on all this kind of nominal money, that the bills of one town will not paſſ at another. The original creation of theſe bills was ſo limited, that no town had half the number requiſite for the circulation of itſ neighbourhood; and this decreaſe, with the diſtruſt that ariſes from the occaſion of it, greatly adds to the general inconvenience.
The retreat of the Pruſſian army excites more ſurprize than intereſt, and the people talk of it with as much indifference as they would of an event that had happened beyond the Ganges. The ſiege of Liſle takes off all attention from the relief of Thionville—not on account of itſ importance, but on account of its novelty.—I remain, Yours, &c.