"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.