France in eighteen hundred and two

My principal object in going beyond the Bois des Vincennes was to examine the agricultural dispositions and the improved plough of François de Neufchâteau,[1] who has obtained a considerable celebrity in France for the great encouragement he, when Minister of the Interior, afforded to husbandry.

In this excursion we were accompanied by two men of very different political characters. Monsieur P——, an avowed Royalist, and Monsieur Dumond,[1] a moderate Republican. The former is distinguished for his dramatic writings and by a very ingenious mode he has invented to enable foreigners to pronounce French correctly without the aid of an instructor. Monsieur Dumond is what we should call a gentleman farmer—and has a large establishment at Epluches, near Pontoise, where he makes an annual exhibition of sheep reared upon his own estate. He possesses excellent stock and great skill in this branch of rural economy. We promised ourselves great pleasure from the political battle I was determined they should wage, and the instructive conversation of M. Dumond upon farming and agricultural subjects.

After traversing the city in an easterly direction we alighted at the Arsenal. This place was gutted at the outbreak of the Revolution to supply arms to the sovereign people. It has never since been replenished.

There are, however, still some considerable quantity of arms in it, but I observed nothing particularly deserving of notice. The Bastille, so famous in the early history of the Revolution, from having been the first fortress over which the triumphant banner of the people waved, is now no more. But the gardens, the “fosse,” and part of the wall remain. The site of the Bastille, which the French vainly flattered themselves would become their Runnymede, is instead a lasting monument of their unfitness to be free—for it is impossible to walk over these ruins without despising a race of men who, in a paroxysm of jealousy, pulled down an ancient fortress for the sake of liberty, and twelve years later suffered their whole country to be converted into a vast prison where free speech and a free press are not tolerated.

From the site of the Bastille we proceeded along the Faubourg St. Antoine, now the cleanest and most unfrequented part of Paris. What a melancholy silence now reigns in that place! Who would suppose that this district of Paris was formerly the focus of intrigue and its inhabitants the successive instruments of every ambitious adventurer—of an Orleans, a Robespierre,[1] a Marat and a Babœuf?[1] In the days of the Convention this was the arsenal of blood and murder, here pikes were forged and poignards sharpened, and from hence an armed banditti issued to execute the bloody mandate of demagogues. But now no spirit-stirring drum is heard, no uplifted bleeding heads are carried as standards by butchering battalions. Santerre himself scarce dare show his face, and the whole Jacobin colony has been disarmed, and by a little thing from Corsica, who, acting as lieutenant to Barras in 1794, commenced his military operations against the liberties of France by a triumph over the fanatics of this Faubourg. The pikemen stand in awe of the heroes of Lodi and Marengo, who surround the palace of the usurper. Santerre, it is true, often murmurs vengeance, but the Government either laugh at this consequential man of no consequence or treat him with the most perfect contempt. He had an interview with Bonaparte soon after the latter became First Consul and was received with civility and attention, but the Consular Guard was not then formed, and Santerre might still be useful. Bonaparte, who must have heard that at the first fire of the Vendéans upon the Parisian Guard, Santerre actually ran away, said: “I think, general, you made war in La Vendée.” “Oui, général,” replied the brewer, “avec beaucoup d’éclat.” The Corsican grinned a smile, and Santerre withdrew, and boasted after the interview “that Bonaparte had treated him with proper consideration and acknowledged his great services in La Vendée.”

The famous donjon de Vincennes is situated close by the public road, in the middle of a wood, and was in ancient times a royal castle, where State prisoners were confined. Since the Revolution it has been converted into a common jail—at present it is reserved entirely for deserters and runaway conscripts. We found about 600 of these in confinement. They were walking in the courtyard, and seemed extremely sorrowful and dejected.

We were not permitted to enter the Gothic tower, which is the finest part of The building; but if we may form an estimate of the interior by the exterior, the state prisoners formerly lodged there must have drawn out a wretched existence—yet here were confined the great Condé and the celebrated Mirabeau.

The attraction of this fortress is its antiquity. Draw-bridges, battlements, covered galleries and fosses display the ancient mode of defence. Some companies of infantry and a troop of horse are in barracks within the walls. After having sufficiently gratified our curiosity we continued our route, and the name of Mirabeau being mentioned I thought a favourable opportunity had arrived for us to enjoy our French companions.

The project succeeded, and the Revolution was furiously discussed from the time of Mirabeau to the present hour. I asked M. Dumond (the Republican) what was now the pay to the different ranks of general? M. P—— (the Royalist) answered before his friend had time to reply: “Nothing, we allow them to thrive and take what they please.” This unexpected answer produced a good laugh, in which M. Dumond joined. Some days after, happening to be in company with a celebrated general, as honest as it is possible for a modern French general to be, I asked him whether it was true that the Republican generals received no salary from the State, but were at liberty to take what they pleased, he answered: “You have been misinformed. The French generals are well paid; but as they are fond of good living and their expenses are great, they naturally make some provision for themselves out of the contributions of conquered countries.” This reply fully confirmed M. P——’s assertion.

At the extremity of the Bois de Vincennes in a hollow stands the Château of Monsieur François. All the country hereabouts is in a fine state of cultivation, the fruits exquisite, and the wine from the vineyards is highly esteemed in Paris.

Monsieur François de Neufchâteau’s house is of moderate size, the gardens large and well disposed. The barns and other out-houses make a respectable appearance, but I perceive none of the animals essential to husbandry or a thrifty farmyard. Most of the ground we went over had been sown. I perceived, however, no grass or meadow land. The French are an age behind us in this branch of agriculture. All the arable land was well cleared and showed care and attention had been bestowed upon it. But I saw no yards, either near or distant to the house, for raising poultry or pigs, &c., which constitute no small proportion of the wealth of a well-managed farm.

After we had sufficiently viewed the general distribution of the grounds, we examined the improved drill plough, to inspect which had been the principal object of our journey. But I discovered not a single property in it which is not already known to the English agriculturist.

Perhaps I am wrong in thus entering into the particulars of a farm which, though in a very satisfactory state, promises to be much better when the owner’s attention can be spared upon it. The house has not long been in the possession of its present proprietor. There are only two bedrooms furnished and not one sitting-room, though there is an excellent library, containing many beautiful editions of the most celebrated works.

The gallery upon the first floor contains some interesting plans and drawings of canals and other public works of France, conceived, executed or repaired when M. de Neufchâteau was Minister of the Interior.

Monsieur Nicholas François, for that is his real and only proper name, was born at the village of Neufchâteau, where he married a woman like himself of humble parentage, and endeavoured to live by writing poetry and scribbling nonsensical verses.

He is the first instance in the history of nations of a poet who exchanged his tattered garments for the mantle of a chief magistrate. M. François being cast upon the surface of the revolutionary cauldron, contributed his humble mite in the holy work of human regeneration, under a variety of Protean shapes, sometimes as a punster in the public journals, at other times by striking off a few calembours and diatribes and then by some fine-spun antitheses, and next by fulsome adulations heaped on the great scoundrels who have successively disturbed the peace of France and of mankind. M. François contrived to at length receive the reward of his indefatigable labours, in the appointment to the very arduous and important functions of Minister of the Interior to the French Revolution.

No sooner had he begun to figure upon the revolutionary stage, over which was inscribed Liberty, Equality, Abolition of Titles and Privileged Caste, than he assumed the feudal name of François de Neufchâteau, a name to which under the old régime he would have no more pretensions than the political adventurer who now rules France would have to that of Bonaparte of Ajaccio.

Another instance of his philosophic mind was shown at the same time. He discarded his virtuous wife, the humble companion of his adverse fortunes, as unworthy to share in the splendour of his new situation, and a handsome and elegant woman was introduced in her stead as mistress of his mansion, and she still continues to fill in the midst of plenty and opulence the place of a legitimate wife now driven to want and wretchedness.

But these are trifles in Paris at the present day, and Monsieur François de Neufchâteau passes for a mild, amiable and virtuous man.

Of the administration of this man I shall have much to say in a future letter, he certainly contributed towards the establishment of many salutary institutions in the Republic, i.e., he revived such of the old government as were contented to promote the happiness and prosperity of France upon the return of a general peace.

I am the more astounded at this as from the conversation I had with him and from the relations made to me by those most intimately acquainted with him he appeared to be a man of weak, contemptible and superficial character. Nevertheless we find him in a short time seated upon the curule chair, and forming one of that junto of rapacious tyrants who under the name of the Executive Directory, by their imbecility, wickedness and crimes, prepared the way for the reign of the usurper who stole like a coward from Egypt to complete the misery of France. François, it appears, took no active part in the directorship, he was merely an empurpled pageant, whose sole occupation was to sign his name whenever ordered to do so by his more wily colleagues. At length finding his situation irksome he profited by an offer from his more ambitious partners and left the Government before the Government left him. In consideration of a douceur of a million livres, £40,000 sterling, he connived at a sham ballot by which he voluntarily blackballed himself from the further enjoyment of the executive magistracy.

His conduct was fortunate as well as prudent. For when the Corsican made short work of the Directory, instead of being banished like Barras[1] or discarded like la Reveillère[1] and Leproux, we find him admitted into the new tyrant’s Senate and actively receiving at the present time £2000 a year sterling during his life for registering the edicts of his master. This annuity, together with his £40,000 indemnification money, and the little pickings he was able to secure during his Ministry, enable him to live in better style than ever before fell to the lot of a French rhymer, for he can now jingle cash as well as the words of the great nation.

This visit to M. François brought on a second engagement between ourselves and our two comrades, and we made an expedition the following day to the Temple, where the unhappy Louis XVI. and his family had been confined. The place is now greatly altered, indeed I should hardly have recognised it. All the surrounding buildings have been pulled down and a large opening formed which absolutely secludes it from all immediate communication with the city. It is impossible to obtain admission into this State prison—it is rigidly guarded within and without the walls. Persons are daily conveyed there by a lettre de cachet from the Grand Inquisitor Fouché, without any preliminary examination and often without the knowledge of their friends. This is the real history of those sudden disappearances of a number of persons, which the French journalists ascribe to robbers and assassins. A trial is never an absolute necessity in this land of liberty to establish innocence or guilt; hence the “Cayenne diligence” is always in readiness to take up such passengers as are not required to make a long stay in the Temple, which is the safest place of baiting between the Bureau of the Minister of Police and Rochefort.

It is not until the wretched victims are upon the eve of embarking upon the Salaminian vessel of state that they are permitted to disclose their fate to their relations and to announce their destination to the delectable regions of the most luxurious climate of Central America. Even this indulgence is however frequently denied to the hapless sufferers.

Yet the constant talk in France is of freedom and equality. It is impossible to live here without imbibing daily fresh causes of detestation and abhorrence of the laws and government of this unhappy country; and I already contemplate with pleasure the moment when I shall take an everlasting leave of France, a country which at one time I almost loved as well as I do my own.