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.
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.
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.
We left Amiens early yeſterday morning, but were ſo much delayed by the number of volunteers on the road, that it was late before we reached Abbeville. I was at firſt ſomewhat alarmed at finding ourſelveſ ſurrounded by ſo formidable a cortege; they however only exacted a declaration of our political principles, and we purchaſed our ſafety by a few ſmiles, and exclamations of vive la nation! There were ſome hundredſ of theſe recruits much under twenty; but the poor fellows, exhilarated by their new uniform and large pay, were going gaily to decide their fate by that hazard which puts youth and age on a level, and ſcatters with indiſcriminating hand the cypreſs and the laurel.
At Abbeville all the former precautions were renewed—we underwent another ſolemn identification of our perſons at the Hotel de Ville, and an abſtract of our hiſtory was again enregiſtered at the inn. One would really ſuppoſe that the town was under apprehenſions of a ſiege, or, at leaſt, of the plague. My "paper face" was examined as ſuſpiciouſly aſ though I had had the appearance of a traveſtied Achilles; and M____'s, which has as little expreſſion as a Chineſe painting, was elaborately ſcrutinized by a Dogberry in ſpectacles, who, perhaps, fancied ſhe had the features of a female Machiavel. All this was done with an air of importance ſufficiently ludicrous, when contraſted with the object; but we met with no incivility, and had nothing to complain of but a little additional fatigue, and the delay of our dinner.
We ſtopped to change horſes at Bernay, and I ſoon perceived our landlady was a very ardent patriot. In a room, to which we waded at great riſk of our clothes, was a repreſentation of the ſiege of the Baſtille, and prints of half a dozen American Generals, headed by Mr. Thomas Paine. On deſcending, we found out hoſteſs exhibiting a ſtill more forcible picture of curioſity than Shakſpeare's blackſmith. The half-demoliſhed repaſt was cooling on the table, whilſt our poſtilion retailed the Gazette, and the pigs and ducks were amicably grazing together on whatever the kitchen produced. The affairs of the Pruſſians and Auſtrians were diſcuſſed with entire unanimity, but when theſe politicians, as is often the caſe, came to adjuſt their own particular account, the conference was much leſſ harmonious. The poſtilion offered a ten ſols billet, which the landlady refuſed: one perſiſted in its validity, the other in rejecting it—till, at laſt, the patriotiſm of neither could endure this proof, and peace waſ concluded by a joint execration of thoſe who invented this fichu papier— "Sorry paper."
At ____ we met our friend, Mad. de ____, with part of her family and an immenſe quantity of baggage. I was both ſurprized and alarmed at ſuch an apparition, and found, on enquiry, that they thought themſelves unſafe at Arras, and were going to reſide near M. de ____'s eſtate, where they were better known. I really began to doubt the prudence of our eſtabliſhing ourſelves here for the winter. Every one who has it in his power endeavours to emigrate, even thoſe who till now have been zealouſ ſupporters of the revolution.—Diſtruſt and apprehenſion ſeem to have taken poſſeſſion of every mind. Thoſe who are in towns fly to the country, while the inhabitant of the iſolated chateau takes refuge in the neighbouring town. Flocks of both ariſtocrates and patriots are trembling and fluttering at the foreboding ſtorm, yet prefer to abide itſ fury, rather than ſeek ſhelter and defence together. I, however, flatter myſelf, that the new government will not juſtify this fear; and as I am certain my friends will not return to England at this ſeaſon, I ſhall not endeavour to intimidate or diſcourage them from their preſent arrangement. We ſhall, at leaſt, be enabled to form ſome idea of a republican conſtitution, and I do not, on reflection, conceive that any poſſible harm can happen to us.
I ſhall not date from this place again, intending to quit it as ſoon aſ poſſible. It is diſturbed by the crouds from the camps, which are broken up, and the ſoldiers are extremely brutal and inſolent. So much are the people already familiarized with the unnatural depravity of manners that begins to prevail, that the wife of the Colonel of a battalion now here walks the ſtreets in a red cap, with piſtols at her girdle, boaſting of the numbers ſhe has deſtroyed at the maſſacres in Auguſt and September.
The Convention talk of the King's trial as a decided meaſure; yet no one ſeems to admit even the poſſibility that ſuch an act can be ever intended. A few believe him culpable, many think him miſled, and many acquit him totally: but all agree, that any violation of his perſon would be an atrocity diſgraceful to the nation at large.—The fate of Princeſ is often diſaſtrous in proportion to their virtues. The vanity, ſelfiſhneſs, and bigotry of Louis the Fourteenth were flattered while he lived, and procured him the appellation of Great after his death. The greateſt military talents that France has given birth to ſeemed created to earn laurels, not for themſelves, but for the brow of that vain-glorious Monarch. Induſtry and Science toiled but for hiſ gratification, and Genius, forgetting its dignity, willingly received from his award the ſame it has ſince beſtowed.
Louis the Fifteenth, who corrupted the people by his example, and ruined them by his expence, knew no diminution of the loyalty, whatever he might of the affection, of his people, and ended his days in the practice of the ſame vices, and ſurrounded by the ſame luxury, in which he had paſſed them.
Louis the Sixteenth, to whom ſcarcely his enemies aſcribe any vices, for its outrages againſt whom faction finds no excuſe but in the facility of his nature—whoſe devotion is at once exemplary and tolerant—who, in an age of licentiouſneſs, is remarkable for the ſimplicity of his mannerſ— whoſe amuſements were liberal or inoffenſive—and whoſe conceſſions to his people form a ſtriking contraſt with the exactions of hiſ predeceſſors.—Yes, the Monarch I have been deſcribing, and, I think, not partially, has been overwhelmed with ſorrow and indignitieſ—his perſon has been degraded, that he might be deſpoiled of his crown, and perhapſ the ſacrifice of his crown may be followed by that of his life. When we thus ſee the puniſhment of guilt accumulated on the head of him who haſ not participated in it, and vice triumph in the ſecurity that ſhould ſeem the lot of innocence, we can only adduce new motives to fortify ourſelveſ in this great truth of our religion—that the chaſtiſement of the one, and reward of the other, muſt be looked for beyond the inflictions or enjoyments of our preſent exiſtence.
I do not often moralize on paper, but there are moments when one deriveſ one's beſt conſolation from ſo moralizing; and this eaſy and ſimple juſtification of Providence, which refers all that appears inconſiſtent here to the retribution of a future ſtate, is pointed out leſs as the duty than the happineſs of mankind. This ſingle argument of religion ſolves every difficulty, and leaves the mind in fortitude and peace; whilſt the pride of ſceptical philoſophy traces whole volumes, only to eſtabliſh the doubts, and nouriſh the deſpair, of its diſciples.
Adieu. I cannot conclude better than with theſe reflections, at a time when diſbelief is ſomething too faſhionable even amongſt our countrymen.—Yours, &c.
I arrived here the day on which a ball was given to celebrate the return of the volunteers who had gone to the aſſiſtance of Liſle.*
*The bombardment of Liſle commenced on the twenty-ninth of September, at three o'clock in the afternoon, and continued, almoſt without interruption, until the ſixth of October. Many of the public buildings, and whole quarters of the town, were ſo much damaged or deſtroyed, that the ſituation of the ſtreets were ſcarcely diſtinguiſhable. The houſes which the fire obliged their inhabitants to abandon, were pillaged by barbarians, more mercileſſ than the Auſtrians themſelves. Yet, amidſt theſe accumulated horrors, the Lillois not only preſerved their courage, but their preſence of mind: the rich incited and encouraged the poor; thoſe who were unable to aſſiſt with their labour, rewarded with their wealth: the men were employed in endeavouring to extinguiſh the fire of the buildings, or in preſerving their effects; while women and children ſnatched the opportunity of extinguiſhing the fuzes of the bombs as ſoon as they fell, at which they became very daring and dexterous. During the whole of this dreadful period, not one murmur, not one propoſition to ſurrender, was heard from any party. —The Convention decreed, amidſt the wildeſt enthuſiaſm of applauſe, that Liſle had deſerved well of the country. —Forty-two thouſand five hundred balls were fired, and the damageſ were eſtimated at forty millions of livres.
The French, indeed, never refuſe to rejoice when they are ordered; but aſ theſe feſtivities are not ſpontaneous effuſions, but official ordinances, and regulated with the ſame method as a tax or recruitment, they are of courſe languid and unintereſting. The whole of their hilarity ſeems to conſiſt in the movement of the dance, in which they are by not meanſ animated; and I have ſeen, even among the common people, a cotillion performed as gravely and as mechanically as the ceremonies of a Chineſe court.—I have always thought, with Sterne, that we were miſtaken in ſuppoſing the French a gay nation. It is true, they laugh much, have great geſticulation, and are extravagantly fond of dancing: but the laugh is the effect of habit, and not of a riſible ſenſation; the geſture iſ not the agitation of the mind operating upon the body, but conſtitutional volatility; and their love of dancing is merely the effect of a happy climate, (which, though mild, does not enervate,) and that love of action which uſually accompanies mental vacancy, when it is not counteracted by heat, or other phyſical cauſes.
I know ſuch an opinion, if publicly avowed, would be combated as falſe and ſingular; yet I appeal to thoſe who have at all ſtudied the French character, not as travellers, but by a reſidence amongſt them, for the ſupport of my opinion. Every one who underſtands the language, and haſ mixed much in ſociety, muſt have made the ſame obſervations.—See two Frenchmen at a diſtance, and the vehemence of their action, and the expreſſion of their features, ſhall make you conclude they are diſcuſſing ſome ſubject, which not only intereſts, but delights them. Enquire, and you will find they were talking of the weather, or the price of a waiſtcoat!—In England you would be tempted to call in a peace-officer at the loud tone and menacing attitudes with which two people here very amicably adjuſt a bargain for five livres.—In ſhort, we miſtake that for a mental quality which, in fact, is but a corporeal one; and, though the French may have many good and agreeable points of character, I do not include gaiety among the number.
I doubt very much of my friends will approve of their habitation. I confeſs I am by no means ſatiſfied with it myſelf; and, with regard to pecuniary conſideration, my engagement is not an advantageous one. —Madame Dorval, of whom I have taken the houſe, is a character very common in France, and over which I was little calculated to have the aſcendant. Officiouſly polite in her manners, and inflexibly attentive to her intereſt, ſhe ſeemingly acquieſces in every thing you propoſe. You would even fancy ſhe was ſolicitous to ſerve you; yet, after a thouſand gracious ſentiments, and as many implied eulogiums on her liberality and generoſity, you find her return, with unrelenting perſeverance, to ſome paltry propoſition, by which ſhe is to gain a few livres; and all this ſo civilly, ſo ſentimentally, and ſo determinedly, that you find yourſelf obliged to yield, and are duped without being deceived.
The lower claſs have here, as well as on your ſide of the water, the cuſtom of attributing to Miniſters and Governments ſome connection with, or controul over, the operations of nature. I remarked to a woman who brings me fruit, that the grapes were bad and dear this year—"Ah! mon Dieu, oui, ils ne murriſſent pas. Il me ſemble que tout va mal depuiſ qu'on a invente la nation." ["Ah! Lord, they don't ripen now.—For my part, I think nothing has gone well ſince the nation was firſt invented."]
I cannot, like the imitators of Sterne, tranſlate a chapter of ſentiment from every incident that occurs, or from every phyſiognomy I encounter; yet, in circumſtances like the preſent, the mind, not uſually obſerving, is tempted to comment.—I was in a milliner's ſhop to-day, and took notice on my entering, that its miſtreſs was, whilſt at her work, learning the Marſeilloiſ Hymn. [A patriotic air, at this time highly popular.] Before I had concluded my purchaſe, an officer came in to prepare her for the reception of four volunteers, whom ſhe was to lodge the two enſuing nights. She aſſented, indeed, very graciouſly, (for a French woman never loſes the command of her features,) but a moment after, the Marſeillois, which lay on the counter, was thrown aſide in a pet, and I dare ſay ſhe will not reſume her patriotic taſte, nor be reconciled to the revolution, until ſome days after the volunteers ſhall have changed their quarters.
This quartering of troops in private houſes appears to me the moſt grievous and impolitic of all taxes; it adds embarraſſment to expence, invades domeſtic comfort, and conveys ſuch an idea of military ſubjection, that I wonder any people ever ſubmits to it, or any government ever ventures to impoſe it.
I know not if the Engliſh are conſcious of their own importance at thiſ moment, but it is certain they are the centre of the hopes and fears of all parties, I might ſay of all Europe. The ariſtocrates wait with anxiety and ſolicitude a declaration of war, whilſt their opponentſ regard ſuch an event as pregnant with diſtreſs, and even as the ſignal of their ruin. The body of the people of both parties are averſe from increaſing the number of their enemies; but as the Convention may be directed by other motives than the public wiſh, it is impoſſible to form any concluſion on the ſubject. I am, of courſe, deſirous of peace, and ſhould be ſo from ſelfiſhneſs, if I were not from philanthropy, as a ceſſation of it at this time would diſconcert all our plans, and oblige us to ſeek refuge at ____, which has juſt all that is neceſſary for our happineſs, except what is moſt deſirable—a mild and dry atmoſphere.— Yours, &c.
The arrival of my friends has occaſioned a ſhort ſuſpenſion of my correſpondence: but though I have been negligent, I aſſure you, my dear brother, I have not been forgetful; and this temporary preference of the ties of friendſhip to thoſe of nature, will be excuſed, when you conſider our long ſeparation.
My intimacy with Mrs. D____ began when I firſt came to this country, and at every ſubſequent viſit to the continent it has been renewed and increaſed into that rational kind of attachment, which your ſex ſeldom allow in ours, though you yourſelves do not abound in examples of it. Mrs. D____ is one of thoſe characters which are oftener loved than admired—more agreeable than handſome—good-natured, humane, and unaſſuming—and with no mental pretenſions beyond common ſenſe tolerably well cultivated. The ſhades of this portraiture are an extreme of delicacy, bordering on faſtidiouſneſſ—a trifle of hauteur, not in manners, but diſpoſition—and, perhaps, a tincture of affectation. Theſe foibles are, however, in a great degree, conſtitutional: ſhe is more an invalid than myſelf; and ill health naturally increaſes irritability, and renders the mind leſs diſpoſed to bear with inconveniencies; we avoid company at firſt, through a ſenſe of our infirmities, till this timidity becomes habitual, and ſettles almoſt into averſion.—The valetudinarian, who is obliged to fly the world, in time fancies herſelf above it, and ends by ſuppoſing there is ſome ſuperiority in differing from other people. Mr. D____ is one of the beſt men exiſting—well bred and well informed; yet, without its appearing to the common obſerver, he is of a very ſingular and original turn of mind. He is moſt exceedingly nervous, and this effect of his phyſical conſtruction has rendered him ſo ſuſceptible, that he is continually agitated and hurt by circumſtanceſ which others paſs by unnoticed. In other reſpects he is a great lover of exerciſe, fond of domeſtic life, reads much, and has an averſion from buſtle of all kind.
The baniſhment of the Prieſts, which in many inſtances was attended with circumſtances of peculiar atrocity, has not yet produced thoſe effectſ which were expected from it, and which the promoters of the meaſure employed as a pretext for its adoption. There are indeed now no maſſeſ ſaid but by the Conſtitutional Clergy; but as the people are uſually aſ ingenious in evading laws as legiſlators are in forming them, many perſons, inſtead of attending the churches, which they think profaned by prieſts who have taken the oaths, flock to church-yards, chapels, or other places, once appropriated to religious worſhip, but in diſuſe ſince the revolution, and of courſe not violated by conſtitutional maſſes. The cemetery of St. Denis, at Amiens, though large, is on Sundays and holidays ſo crouded, that it is almoſt difficult to enter it. Here the devotees flock in all weathers, ſay their maſs, and return with the double ſatiſfaction of having preſerved their allegiance to the Pope, and riſked perſecution in a cauſe they deem meritorious. To ſay truth, it iſ not very ſurprizing that numbers ſhould be prejudiced againſt the conſtitutional clergy. Many of them are, I doubt not, liberal and well-meaning men, who have preferred peace and ſubmiſſion to theological warfare, and who might not think themſelves juſtified in oppoſing their opinion to a national deciſion: yet are there alſo many of profligate lives, who were never educated for the profeſſion, and whom the circumſtances of the times have tempted to embrace it as a trade, which offered ſubſiſtence without labour, and influence without wealth, and which at once ſupplied a veil for licentiouſneſs, and the means of practiſing it. Such paſtors, it muſt be confeſſed, have little claim to the confidence or reſpect of the people; and that there are ſuch, I do not aſſert, but on the moſt credible information. I will only cite two inſtances out of many within my own knowledge.
P____n, biſhop of St. Omer, was originally a prieſt of Arras, of viciouſ character, and many of his ordinations have been ſuch as might be expected from ſuch a patron.—A man of Arras, who was only known for hiſ vicious purſuits, and who had the reputation of having accelerated the death of his wife by ill treatment, applied to P____n to marry him a ſecond time. The good Biſhop, preferring the intereſt of his friend to the ſalvation of his flock, adviſed him to relinquiſh the project of taking a wife, and offered to give him a cure. The propoſal was accepted on the ſpot, and this pious aſſociate of the Reverend P____n waſ immediately inveſted with the direction of the conſciences, and the care of the morals, of an extenſive pariſh.
Acts of this nature, it is to be imagined, were purſued by cenſure and ridicule; but the latter was not often more ſucceſſful than on the following occaſion:—Two young men, whoſe perſons were unknown to the biſhop, one day procured an audience, and requeſted he would recommend them to ſome employment that would procure them the means of ſubſiſtence. This was juſt a time when the numerous vacancies that had taken place were not yet ſupplied, and many livings were unfilled for want of candidates. The Biſhop, who was unwilling that the nonjuring prieſtſ ſhould have the triumph of ſeeing their benefices remain vacant, fell into the ſnare, and propoſed their taking orders. The young men expreſſed their joy at the offer; but, after looking confuſedly on each other, with ſome difficulty and diffidence, confeſſed their lives had been ſuch as to preclude them from the profeſſion, which, but for thiſ impediment, would have ſatiſfied them beyond their hopes. The Biſhop very complaiſantly endeavoured to obviate theſſe objections, while they continued to accuſe themſelves of all the ſins in the decalogue; but the Prelate at length obſerving he had ordained many worſe, the young men ſmiled contemptuouſly, and, turning on their heels, replied, that if prieſts were made of worſe men than they had deſcribed themſelves to be, they begged to be excuſed from aſſociating with ſuch company.
Dumouriez, Cuſtine, Biron, Dillon, &c. are doing wonders, in ſpite of the ſeaſon; but the laurel is an ever-green, and theſe heroes gather it equally among the ſnows of the Alps, and the fogs of Belgium. If we may credit the French papers too, what they call the cauſe of liberty is not leſs ſucceſſfully propagated by the pen than the ſword. England is ſaid to be on the eve of a revolution, and all its inhabitants, except the King and Mr. Pitt, become Jacobins. If I did not believe "the wiſh waſ father to the thought," I ſhould read theſe aſſertions with much inquietude, as I have not yet diſcovered the excellencies of a republican form of government ſufficiently to make me wiſh it ſubſtituted for our own.—It ſhould ſeem that the Temple of Liberty, as well as the Temple of Virtue, is placed on an aſcent, and that as many inflexions and retrogradations occur in endeavouring to attain it. In the ardour of reaching theſe difficult acclivities, a fall ſometimes leaves us lower than the ſituation we firſt ſet out from; or, to ſpeak without a figure, ſo much power is exerciſed by our leaders, and ſo much ſubmiſſion exacted from the people, that the French are in danger of becoming habituated to a deſpotiſm which almoſt ſanctifies the errors of their ancient monarchy, while they ſuppoſe themſelves in the purſuit of a degree of freedom more ſublime and more abſolute than has been enjoyed by any other nation.— Attempts at political as well as moral perfection, when carried beyond the limits compatible with a ſocial ſtate, or the weakneſs of our natures, are likely to end in a depravity which moderate governments and rational ethics would have prevented.
The debates of the Convention are violent and acrimonious. Robeſpierre has been accuſed of aſpiring to the Dictatorſhip, and his defence was by no means calculated to exonerate him from the charge. All the chiefſ reproach each other with being the authors of the late maſſacres, and each ſucceeds better in fixing the imputation on his neighbour, than in removing it from himſelf. General reprobation, perſonal invectives, and long ſpeeches, are not wanting; but every thing which tends to examination and enquiry is treated with much more delicacy and compoſure: ſo that I fear theſe firſt legiſlators of the republic muſt, for the preſent, be content with the reputation they have aſſigned each other, and rank amongſt thoſe who have all the guilt, but want the courage, of aſſaſſins.
I ſubjoin an extract from a newſpaper, which has lately appeared.*
*Extract from The Courier de l'Egalite, November, 1792: "There are diſcontented people who ſtill venture to obtrude their ſentiments on the public. One of them, in a public print, thuſ expreſſes himſelf— 'I aſſert, that the newſpapers are ſold and devoted to falſehood. At this price they purchaſe the liberty of appearing; and the excluſive privilege they enjoy, as well as the contradictory and lying aſſertions they all contain, prove the truth of what I advance. They are all preachers of liberty, yet never was liberty ſo ſhamefully outraged—of reſpect for property, and property was at no time ſo little held ſacred—of perſonal ſecurity, yet when were there committed ſo many maſſacres? and, at the very moment I am writing, new ones are premeditated. They call vehemently for ſubmiſſion, and obedience to the laws, but the laws had never leſſ influence; and while our compliance with ſuch as we are even ignorant of is exacted, it is accounted a crime to execute thoſe in force. Every municipality has its own arbitrary code—every battalion, every private ſoldier, exerciſes a ſovereignty, a moſt abſolute deſpotiſm; and yet the Gazettes do not ceaſe to boaſt the excellence of ſuch a government. They have, one and all, attributed the maſſacres of the tenth of Auguſt and the ſecond of September, and the days following each, to a popular fermentation. The monſterſ! they have been careful not to tell us, that each of theſe horrid ſcenes (at the priſons, at La Force, at the Abbaye, &c. &c.) was preſided by municipal officers in their ſcarfs, who pointed out the victims, and gave the ſignal for the aſſaſſination. It waſ (continue the Journals) the error of an irritated people—and yet their magiſtrates were at the head of it: it was a momentary error; yet this error of a moment continued during ſix whole days of the cooleſt reflection—it was only at the cloſe of the ſeventh that Petion made his appearance, and affected to perſuade the people to deſiſt. The aſſaſſins left off only from fatigue, and at thiſ moment they are preparing to begin again. The Journals do not tell us that the chief of theſe Sceleratſ [We have no term in the Engliſh language that conveys an adequate meaning for this word—it ſeems to expreſs the extreme of human wickedneſs and atrocity.] employed ſubordinate aſſaſſins, whom they cauſed to be clandeſtinely murdered in their turn, as though they hoped to deſtroy the proof of their crime, and eſcape the vengeance that awaits them. But the people themſelves were accomplices in the deed, for the Garde Nationale gave their aſſiſtance,'" &c. &c.
In ſpite of the murder of ſo many journaliſts, and the deſtruction of the printing-offices, it treats the September buſineſs ſo freely, that the editor will doubtleſs ſoon be ſilenced. Admitting theſe accuſations to be unfounded, what ideas muſt the people have of their magiſtrates, when they are credited? It is the prepoſſeſſion of the hearer that giveſ authenticity to fiction; and ſuch atrocities would neither be imputed to, nor believed of, men not already bad.—Yours, &c.
Dear Brother,
All the public prints ſtill continue ſtrongly to inſinuate, that England is prepared for an inſurrection, and Scotland already in actual rebellion: but I know the character of our countrymen too well to be perſuaded that they have adopted new principles as eaſily as they would adopt a new mode, or that the viſionary anarchiſts of the French government can have made many proſelytes among an humane and rational people. For many years we were content to let France remain the arbitreſs of the lighter departments of taſte: lately ſhe has ceded thiſ province to us, and England has dictated with unconteſted ſuperiority. This I cannot think very ſtrange; for the eye in time becomes fatigued by elaborate finery, and requires only the introduction of ſimple elegance to be attracted by it. But if, while we export faſhions to this country, we ſhould receive in exchange her republican ſyſtems, it would be a ſtrange revolution indeed; and I think, in ſuch a commerce, we ſhould be far from finding the balance in our favour. I have, in fact, little ſolicitude about theſe diurnal falſehoods, though I am not altogether free from alarm as to their tendency. I cannot help ſuſpecting it is to influence the people to a belief that ſuch diſpoſitions exiſt in England as preclude the danger of a war, in caſe it ſhould be thought neceſſary to ſacrifice the King.
I am more confirmed in this opinion, from the recent diſcovery, with the circumſtances attending it, of a ſecret iron cheſt at the Tuilleries. The man who had been employed to conſtruct this receſs, informs the miniſter, Rolland; who, inſtead of communicating the matter to the Convention, as it was very natural he ſhould do on an occaſion of ſo much importance, and requiring it to be opened in the preſence of proper witneſſes, goes privately himſelf, takes the papers found into his own poſſeſſion, and then makes an application for a committee to examine them. Under theſe ſuſpicious and myſterious appearances, we are told that many letters, &c. are found, which inculpate the King; and perhapſ the fate of this unfortunate Monarch is to be decided by evidence not admiſſible with juſtice in the caſe of the obſcureſt malefactor. Yet Rolland is the hero of a party who call him, par excellence, the virtuouſ Rolland! Perhaps you will think, with me, that this epithet iſ miſapplied to a man who has riſen, from an obſcure ſituation to that of firſt Miniſter, without being poſſeſſed of talents of that brilliant or prominent claſs which ſometimes force themſelves into notice, without the aid of wealth or the ſupport of patronage.
Rolland was inſpector of manufactories in this place, and afterwards at Lyons; and I do not go too far in advancing, that a man of very rigid virtue could not, from ſuch a ſtation, have attained ſo ſuddenly the one he now poſſeſſes. Virtue is of an unvarying and inflexible nature: it diſdains as much to be the flatterer of mobs, as the adulator of Princes: yet how often muſt he, who riſes ſo far above his equals, have ſtooped below them? How often muſt he have ſacrificed both his reaſon and hiſ principles? How often have yielded to the little, and oppoſed the great, not from conviction, but intereſt? For in this the meaneſt of mankind reſemble the moſt exalted; he beſtows not his confidence on him who reſiſts his will, nor ſubſcribes to the advancement of one whom he doeſ not hope to influence.—I may almoſt venture to add, that more diſſimulation, meaner conceſſions, and more tortuous policy, are requiſite to become the idol of the people, than are practiſed to acquire and preſerve the favour of the moſt potent Monarch in Europe. The French, however, do not argue in this manner, and Rolland is at preſent very popular, and his popularity is ſaid to be greatly ſupported by the literary talents of his wife.
I know not if you rightly underſtand theſe party diſtinctions among a ſet of men whom you muſt regard as united in the common cauſe of eſtabliſhing a republic in France, but you have ſometimes had occaſion to remark in England, that many may amicably concur in the accompliſhment of a work, who differ extremely about the participation of its advantages; and thiſ is already the caſe with the Convention. Thoſe who at preſent poſſeſſ all the power, and are infinitely the ſtrongeſt, are wits, moraliſts, and philoſophers by profeſſion, having Briſſot, Rolland, Petion, Concorcet, &c. at their head; their opponents are adventurers of a more deſperate caſt, who make up by violence what they want in numbers, and are led by Robeſpierre, Danton, Chabot, &c. &c. The only diſtinction of theſe parties is, I believe, that the firſt are vain and ſyſtematical hypocrites, who have originally corrupted the minds of the people by viſionary and inſidious doctrines, and now maintain their ſuperiority by artifice and intrigue: their opponents, equally wicked, and more daring, juſtify that turpitude which the others ſeek to diſguiſe, and appear almoſt as bad as they are. The credulous people are duped by both; while the cunning of the one, and the vehemence of the other, alternately prevail.—But ſomething too much of politics, as my deſign is in general rather to mark their effect on the people, than to enter on more immediate diſcuſſions.
Having been at the Criminal Tribunal to-day, I now recollect that I have never yet deſcribed to you the coſtume of the French Judges.—Perhapſ when I have before had occaſion to ſpeak of it, your imagination may have glided to Weſtminſter Hall, and depicted to you the ſcarlet robes and voluminous wigs of its reſpectable magiſtrates: but if you would form an idea of a magiſtrate here, you muſt bring your mind to the abſtraction of Crambo, and figure to yourſelf a Judge without either gown, wig, or any of thoſe venerable appendages. Nothing indeed can be more becoming or gallant, than this judicial accoutrement—it is black, with a ſilk cloak of the ſame colour, in the Spaniſh form, and a round hat, turned up before, with a large plume of black feathers. This, when the magiſtrate happens to be young, has a very theatrical and romantic appearance; but when it is worn by a figure a little Eſopian, or with a large buſhy perriwig, as I have ſometimes ſeen it, the effect is ſtill leſs awful; and a ſtranger, on ſeeing ſuch an apparition in the ſtreet, is tempted to ſuppoſe it a period of jubilee, and that the inhabitants are in maſquerade.
It is now the cuſtom for all people to addreſs each other by the appellation of Citizen; and whether you are a citizen or not—whether you inhabit Paris, or are a native of Peru—ſtill it is an indication of ariſtocracy, either to exact, or to uſe, any other title. This is all congruous with the ſyſtem of the day: the abuſes are real, the reform iſ imaginary. The people are flattered with ſounds, while they are loſing in eſſentials. And the permiſſion to apply the appellation of Citizen to its members, is but a poor compenſation for the deſpotiſm of a department or a municipality.
In vain are the people flattered with a chimerical equality—it cannot exiſt in a civilized ſtate, and if it could exiſt any where, it would not be in France. The French are habituated to ſubordination—they naturally look up to ſomething ſuperior—and when one claſs is degraded, it is only to give place to another.
—The pride of the nobleſſe is ſucceeded by the pride of the merchant— the influence of wealth is again realized by cheap purchaſes of the national domainſ—the abandoned abbey becomes the delight of the opulent trader, and replaces the demoliſhed chateau of the feudal inſtitution. Full of the importance which the commercial intereſt is to acquire under a republic, the wealthy man of buſineſs is eaſily reconciled to the oppreſſion of the ſuperior claſſes, and enjoys, with great dignity, hiſ new elevation. The counting-houſe of a manufacturer of woollen cloth iſ as inacceſſible as the boudoir of a Marquis; while the flowered brocade gown and well-powdered curls of the former offer a much more impoſing exterior than the chintz robe de chambre and diſhevelled locks of the more affable man of faſhion.
I have read, in ſome French author, a maxim to this effect:—"Act with your friends as though they ſhould one day be your enemies;" and the exiſting government ſeems amply to have profited by the admonition of their country-man: for notwithſtanding they affirm, that all France ſupports, and all England admires them, this does not prevent their exerciſing a moſt vigilant inquiſition over the inhabitants of both countries.—It is already ſagaciouſly hinted, that Mr. Thomas Paine may be a ſpy, and every houſeholder who receives a lodger or viſitor, and every proprietor who lets a houſe, is obliged to regiſter the names of thoſe he entertains, or who are his tenants, and to become reſponſible for their conduct. This is done at the municipality, and all who thuſ venture to change their reſidence, of whatever age, ſex, or condition, muſt preſent themſelves, and ſubmit to an examination. The power of the municipalities is indeed very great; and as they are chiefly ſelected from the lower claſs of ſhop-keepers, you may conclude that their authority is not exerciſed with much politeneſs or moderation.
The timid or indolent inhabitant of London, whoſe head has been filled with the Baſtilles and police of the ancient government, and who would aſ ſoon have ventured to Conſtantinople as to Paris, reads, in the debateſ of the Convention, that France is now the freeeſt country in the world, and that ſtrangers from all corners of it flock to offer their adorationſ in this new Temple of Liberty. Allured by theſe deſcriptions, he reſolves on the journey, willing, for once in his life, to enjoy a taſte of the bleſſing in ſublimate, which he now learns has hitherto been allowed him only in the groſs element.—He experiences a thouſand impoſitions on landing with his baggage at Calais, but he ſubmits to them without murmuring, becauſe his countrymen at Dover had, on hiſ embarkation, already kindly initiated him into this ſcience of taxing the inquiſitive ſpirit of travellers. After inſcribing his name, and rewarding the cuſtom-houſe officers for rummaging his portmanteau, he determines to amuſe himſelf with a walk about the town. The firſt centinel he encounters ſtops him, becauſe he has no cockade: he purchaſeſ one at the next ſhop, (paying according to the exigency of the caſe,) and is ſuffered to paſs on. When he has ſettled his bill at the Auberge "a l'Angloiſe," and emagines he has nothing to do but to purſue his journey, he finds he has yet to procure himſelf a paſſport. He waits an hour and an half for an officer, who at length appears, and with a rule in one hand, and a pen in the other, begins to meaſure the height, and take an inventory of the features of the aſtoniſhed ſtranger. By the time thiſ ceremony is finiſhed, the gates are ſhut, and he can proceed no farther, till the morrow. He departs early, and is awakened twice on the road to Boulogne to produce his paſſport: ſtill, however, he keeps his temper, concluding, that the new light has not yet made its way to the frontiers, and that theſe troubleſome precautions may be neceſſary near a port. He continues his route, and, by degrees, becomes habituated to this regimen of liberty; till, perhaps, on the ſecond day, the validity of hiſ paſſport is diſputed, the municipality who granted it have the reputation of ariſtocracy, or the whole is informal, and he muſt be content to wait while a meſſenger is diſpatched to have it rectified, and the officerſ eſtabliſh the ſeverity of their patriotiſm at the expence of the ſtranger.
Our traveller, at length, permitted to depart, feels his patience wonderfully diminiſhed, execrates the regulations of the coaſt, and the ignorance of ſmall towns, and determines to ſtop a few days and obſerve the progreſs of freedom at Ameins. Being a large commercial place, he here expects to behold all the happy effects of the new conſtitution; he congratulates himſelf on travelling at a period when he can procure information, and diſcuſs his political opinions, unannoyed by fears of ſtate priſons, and ſpies of the police. His landlord, however, acquaintſ him, that his appearance at the Town Houſe cannot be diſpenſed with—he attends three or four different hours of appointment, and is each time ſent away, (after waiting half an hour with the valets de ville in the antichamber,) and told that the municipal officers are engaged. As an Engliſhman, he has little reliſh for theſe ſubordinate ſovereigns, and difficult audienceſ—he hints at the next coffee-houſe that he had imagined a ſtranger might have reſted two days in a free country, without being meaſured, and queſtioned, and without detailing his hiſtory, aſ though he were ſuſpected of deſertion; and ventures on ſome implied compariſon between the ancient "Monſieur le Commandant," and the modern "Citoyen Maire."—To his utter aſtoniſhment he finds, that though there are no longer emiſſaries of the police, there are Jacobin informers; hiſ diſcourſe is reported to the municipality, his buſineſs in the town becomes the ſubject of conjecture, he is concluded to be "un homme ſanſ aveu," [One that can't give a good account of himſelf.] and arreſted aſ "ſuſpect;" and it is not without the interference of the people to whom he may have been recommended at Paris, that he is releaſed, and enabled to continue his journey.
At Paris he lives in perpetual alarm. One night he is diſturbed by a viſite domiciliaire, another by a riot—one day the people are in inſurrection for bread, and the next murdering each other at a public feſtival; and our country-man, even after making every allowance for the confuſion of a recent change, thinks himſelf very fortunate if he reacheſ England in ſafety, and will, for the reſt of his life, be ſatiſfied with ſuch a degree of liberty as is ſecured to him by the conſtitution of hiſ own country.
You ſee I have no deſign of tempting you to pay us a viſit; and, to ſpeak the truth, I think thoſe who are in England will ſhow their wiſdom by remaining there. Nothing but the ſtate of Mrs. D____'s health, and her dread of the ſea at this time of the year, detains us; for every day ſubtracts from my courage, and adds to my apprehenſions.
—Yours, &c.