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Maiſon d'Arret, Arras, Oct. 15, 1793. Maiſon d'Arret, Arras, Oct. 17, 1793. Bicetre at Amiens, Nov. 18, 1793. Amiens, Providence, Dec. 10, 1793. |
Vanity, I believe, my dear brother, is not ſo innoxious a quality as we are deſirous of ſuppoſing. As it is the moſt general of all human failings, ſo is it regarded with the moſt indulgence: a latent conſciouſneſs averts the cenſure of the weak; and the wiſe, who flatter themſelves with being exempt from it, plead in its favour, by ranking it as a foible too light for ſerious condemnation, or too inoffenſive for puniſhment. Yet, if vanity be not an actual vice, it is certainly a potential one—it often leads us to ſeek reputation rather than virtue, to ſubſtitute appearances for realities, and to prefer the eulogiums of the world to the approbation of our own minds. When it takes poſſeſſion of an uninformed or an ill-conſtituted mind, it becomes the ſource of a thouſand errors, and a thouſand abſurdities. Hence, youth ſeeks a preeminence in vice, and age in folly; hence, many boaſt of errors they would not commit, or claim diſtinction by inveſting themſelves with an imputation of exceſs in ſome popular abſurdity—duels are courted by the daring, and vaunted by the coward—he who trembles at the idea of death and a future ſtate when alone, proclaims himſelf an atheiſt or a free-thinker in public—the water-drinker, who ſuffers the penitence of a week for a ſupernumerary glaſs, recounts the wonders of hiſ intemperance—and he who does not mount the gentleſt animal without trepidation, plumes himſelf on breaking down horſes, and his perils in the chace. In ſhort, whatever order of mankind we contemplate, we ſhall perceive that the portion of vanity allotted us by nature, when it iſ not corrected by a ſound judgement, and rendered ſubſervient to uſeful purpoſes, is ſure either to degrade or miſlead us.
I was led into this train of reflection by the conduct of our Anglo-Gallican legiſlator, Mr. Thomas Paine. He has lately compoſed a ſpeech, which was tranſlated and read in his preſence, (doubtleſs to hiſ great ſatiſfaction,) in which he inſiſts with much vehemence on the neceſſity of trying the King; and he even, with little credit to hiſ humanity, gives intimations of preſumed guilt. Yet I do not ſuſpect Mr. Paine to be of a cruel or unmerciful nature; and, moſt probably, vanity alone has inſtigated him to a proceeding which, one would wiſh to believe, his heart diſapproves. Tired of the part he was playing, and which, it muſt be confeſſed, was not calculated to flatter the cenſurer of Kings and the reformer of conſtitutions, he determined to ſit no longer for whole hours in colloquy with his interpreter, or in mute contemplation, like the Chancellor in the Critic; and the ſpeech to which I have alluded was compoſed. Knowing that lenient opinions would meet no applauſe from the tribunes, he inliſts himſelf on the ſide of ſeverity, accuſes all the Princes in the world as the accomplices of Louis the Sixteenth, expreſſes his deſire for an univerſal revolution, and, after previouſly aſſuring the Convention the King is guilty, recommends that they may inſtantly proceed to his trial. But, after all this tremendous eloquence, perhaps Mr. Paine had no malice in his heart: he may only be ſolicitous to preſerve his reputation from decay, and to indulge his ſelf-importance by aſſiſting at the trial of a Monarch whom he may not wiſh to ſuffer.—I think, therefore, I am not wrong in aſſerting, that Vanity is a very miſchievous counſellor.
The little diſtreſſes I formerly complained of, as ariſing from the paper currency, are nearly removed by a plentiful emiſſion of ſmall aſſignats, and we have now pompous aſſignments on the national domains for ten ſols: we have, likewiſe, pieces coined from the church bells in circulation, but moſt of theſe diſappear as ſoon as iſſued. You would ſcarcely imagine that this copper is deemed worthy to be hoarded; yet ſuch is the people's averſion from the paper, and ſuch their miſtruſt of the government, that not an houſewife will part with one of theſe pieceſ while ſhe has an aſſignat in her poſſeſſion; and thoſe who are rich enough to keep a few livres by them, amaſs and bury this copper treaſure with the utmoſt ſolicitude and ſecreſy.
A tolerably accurate ſcale of the national confidence might be made, by marking the progreſs of theſe ſuſpicious interments. Under the firſt Aſſembly, people began to hide their gold; during the reign of the ſecond they took the ſame affectionate care of their ſilver; and, ſince the meeting of the Convention, they ſeem equally anxious to hide any metal they can get. If one were to deſcribe the preſent age, one might, as far as regards France, call it, both literally and metaphorically, the Iron Age; for it is certain, the character of the times would juſtify the metaphoric application, and the diſappearance of every other metal the literal one. As the French are fond of claſſic examples, I ſhall not be ſurprized to ſee an iron coinage, in imitation of Sparta, though they ſeem in the way of having one reaſon leſs for ſuch a meaſure than the Spartans had, for they are already in a ſtate to defy corruption; and if they were not, I think a war with England would ſecure the purity of their morals from being endangered by too much commercial intercourſe.
I cannot be diſpleaſed with the civil things you ſay of my letters, nor at your valuing them ſo much as to preſerve them; though, I aſſure you, this fraternal gallantry is not neceſſary, on the account you intimate, nor will our countrymen ſuffer, in my opinion, by any compariſons I can make here. Your ideas of French gallantry are, indeed, very erroneouſ— it may differ in the manner from that practiſed in England, but is far from having any claim to ſuperiority. Perhaps I cannot define the pretenſions of the two nations in this reſpect better than by ſaying, that the gallantry of an Engliſhman is a ſentiment—that of a Frenchman a ſyſtem. The firſt, if a lady happen to be old or plain, or indifferent to him, is apt to limit his attentions to reſpect, or utility—now the latter never troubles himſelf with theſe diſtinctions: he is repulſed by no extremity of years, nor deformity of feature; he adores, with equal ardour, both young and old, nor is either often ſhocked by his viſible preference of the other. I have ſeen a youthful beau kiſs, with perfect devotion, a ball of cotton dropped from the hand of a lady who waſ knitting ſtockings for her grand-children. Another pays his court to a belle in her climacteric, by bringing gimbletteſ [A ſort of gingerbread.] to the favourite lap-dog, or attending, with great aſſiduity, the egreſſes and regreſſes of her angola, who paces ſlowly out of the room ten times in an hour, while the door is held open by the complaiſant Frenchman with a moſt reſpectful gravity.
Thus, you ſee, France is to the old what a maſquerade is to the ugly —the one confounds the diſparity of age as the other does that of perſon; but indiſcriminate adoration is no compliment to youth, nor is a maſk any privilege to beauty. We may therefore conclude, that though France may be the Elyſium of old women, England is that of the young. When I firſt came into this country, it reminded me of an iſland I had read of in the Arabian Tales, where the ladies were not deemed in their bloom till they verged towards ſeventy; and I conceived the project of inviting all the belles, who had been half a century out of faſhion in England, to croſs the Channel, and begin a new career of admiration!— Yours, &c.
Dear Brother,
I have thought it hitherto a ſelf evident propoſition—that of all the principles which can be inculcated in the human mind, that of liberty iſ leaſt ſuſceptible of propagation by force. Yet a Council of Philoſopherſ (diſciples of Rouſſeau and Voltaire) have ſent forth Dumouriez, at the head of an hundred thouſand men, to inſtruct the people of Flanders in the doctrine of freedom. Such a miſſionary is indeed invincible, and the defenceleſs towns of the Low Countries have been converted and pillaged [By the civil agents of the executive power.] by a benevolent cruſade of the philanthropic aſſertors of the rights of man. Theſe warlike Propagandiſtes, however, do not always convince without experiencing reſiſtance, and ignorance ſometimes oppoſes, with great obſtinacy, the progreſs of truth. The logic of Dumouriez did not enforce conviction at Gemappe, but at the expence of fifteen thouſand of his own army, and, doubtleſs, a proportionate number of the unconverted.
Here let me forbear every expreſſion tending to levity: the heart recoilſ at ſuch a ſlaughter of human victims; and, if a momentary ſmile be excited by theſe Quixotiſms, it is checked by horror at their conſequenceſ!—Humanity will lament ſuch deſtruction; but it will likewiſe be indignant to learn, that, in the official account of thiſ battle, the killed were eſtimated at three hundred, and the wounded at ſix!—But, if the people be ſacrificed, they are not deceived. The diſabled ſufferers, who are returning to their homes in different partſ of the republic, betray the turpitude of the government, and expoſe the fallacy of theſe bloodleſs victories of the gazettes. The pedants of the Convention are not unlearned in the hiſtory of the Praetorian Bands and the omnipotence of armies; and an offenſive war is undertaken to give occupation to the ſoldiers, whoſe inactivity might produce reflection, or whoſe diſcontent might prove fatal to the new order of things.—Attemptſ are made to divert the public mind from the real miſery experienced at home, by relations of uſeleſs conqueſts abroad; the ſubſtantial loſſes, which are the price of theſe imaginary benefits, are palliated or concealed; and the circumſtances of an engagement is known but by individual communication, and when ſubſequent events have nearly effaced the remembrance of it.—By theſe artifices, and from motives at leaſt not better, and, perhaps, worſe than thoſe I have mentioned, will population be diminiſhed, and agriculture impeded: France will be involved in preſent diſtreſs, and conſigned to future want; and the deluded people be puniſhed in the miſeries of their own country, becauſe their unprincipled rulers have judged it expedient to carry war and devaſtation into another.
One of the diſtinguiſhing features in the French character is ſang froid —ſcarcely a day paſſes that it does not force itſelf on one'ſ obſervation. It is not confined to the thinking part of the people, who know that paſſion and irritability avail nothing; nor to thoſe who, not thinking at all, are, of courſe, not moved by any thing: but is equally poſſeſſed by every rank and condition, whether you claſs them by their mental endowments, or their temporal poſſeſſions. They not only (as, it muſt be confeſſed, is too commonly the caſe in all countries,) bear the calamities of their friends with great philoſophy, but are nearly aſ reaſonable under the preſſure of their own. The grief of a Frenchman, at leaſt, partakes of his imputed national complaiſance, and, far from intruding itſelf on ſociety, is always ready to accept of conſolation, and join in amuſement. If you ſay your wife or relations are dead, they replay coldly, "Il faut ſe conſoler:" or if they viſit you in an illneſs, "Il faut prendre patience." Or tell them you are ruined, and their features then become ſomething more attenuated, the ſhoulderſ ſomething more elevated, and a more commiſerating tone confeſſes, "C'eſt bien mal beureux—Mai enfin que voulez vous?" ["It's unlucky, but what can be ſaid in ſuch caſes?"] and in the ſame inſtant they ill recount ſome good fortune at a card party, or expatiate on the excellence of a ragout.—Yet, to do them juſtice, they only offer for your comfort the ſame arguments they would have found efficacious in promoting their own.
This diſpoſition, which preſerves the tranquillity of the rich, indurateſ the ſenſe of wretchedneſs in the poor; it ſupplies the place of fortitude in the one, and that of patience in the other; and, while it enables both to endure their own particular diſtreſſes, it makes them ſubmit quietly to a weight and exceſs of public evils, which any nation but their own would ſink under, or reſiſt. Amongſt ſhopkeepers, ſervants, &c. without incurring perſonal odium, it has the effect of what would be deemed in England impenetrable aſſurance. It forces pertinaceouſly an article not wanted, and preſerves the inflexibility of the features at a detected impoſition: it inſpires ſervants with arguments in defence of every miſdemeanour in the whole domeſtic catalogue; it renders them inſenſible either of their negligences or the conſequences of them; and endows them with a happy facility of contradicting with the moſt obſequiouſ politeneſs.
A gentleman of our acquaintances dined at a table d'Hote, where the company were annoyed by a very uncommon and offenſive ſmell. On cutting up a fowl, they diſcovered the ſmell to have been occaſioned by its being dreſſed with out any other preparation than that of depluming. They immediately ſent for the hoſt, and told him, that the fowl had been dreſſed without having been drawn: but, far from appearing diſconcerted, as one might expect, he only replied, "Cela ſe pourroit bien, Monſieur." ["'Tis very poſſible, Sir."] Now an Engliſh Boniface, even though he had already made his fortune, would have been mortified at ſuch an incident, and all his eloquence would ſcarcely have produced an unfaultering apology.
Whether this national indifference originate in a phyſical or a moral cauſe, from an obtuſeneſs in their corporeal formation or a perfection in their intellectual one, I do not pretend to decide; but whatever be the cauſe, the effect is enjoyed with great modeſty. So little do the French pique themſelves on this valuable ſtoiciſm, that they acknowledge being more ſubject to that human weakneſs called feeling, than any other people in the world. All their writers abound in pathetic exclamations, ſentimental phraſes, and alluſions to "la ſenſibilite Francaiſe," aſ though they imagined it proverbial. You can ſcarcely hold a converſation with a Frenchman without hearing him detail, with an expreſſion of feature not always analogous, many very affecting ſentences. He iſ deſole, deſeſpere, or afflige—he has le coeur trop ſenſible, le coeur ſerre, or le coeur navre; [Afflicted—in deſpair—too feeling a heart— his heart is wrung or wounded.] and the well-placing of theſe dolorouſ aſſertions depends rather upon the judgement and eloquence of the ſpeaker, than the ſeriouſneſs of the caſe which gives riſe to them. For inſtance, the deſpair and deſolation of him who has loſt his money, and of him whoſe head is ill dreſt, are of different degrees, but the expreſſions are uſually the ſame. The debates of the Convention, the debates of the Jacobins, and all the public prints, are fraught with proofs of this appropriated ſuſceptibility, and it is often attributed to perſons and occaſions where we ſhould not much expect to find it. A quarrel between the legiſlators as to who was moſt concerned in promoting the maſſacres of September, is reconciled with a "ſweet and enthuſiaſtic exceſs of fraternal tenderneſs." When the clubs diſpute on the expediency of an inſurrection, or the neceſſity of a more frequent employment of the guillotine, the debate terminates by overflowing of ſenſibility from all the members who have engaged in it!
At the aſſaſſinations in one of the priſons, when all the other miſerable victims had periſhed, the mob diſcovered one Jonneau, a member of the Aſſembly, who had been confined for kicking another member named Grangeneuve.* As the maſſacrers probably had no orders on the ſubject, he was brought forth, from amidſt heaps of murdered companions, and a meſſenger diſpatched to the Aſſembly, (which during theſe ſcenes met aſ uſual,) to enquire if they acknowledged Jonneau as a member. A decree was paſſed in the affirmative, and Jonneau brought by the aſſaſſins, with the decree faſtened on his breaſt, in triumph to his colleagues, who, we are told, at this inſtance of reſpect for themſelves, ſhed tears of tenderneſs and admiration at the conduct of monſters, the ſight of whom ſhould ſeem revolting to human nature.
* When the maſſacres began, the wife and friends of Jonneau petitioned Grangeneuve on their knees to conſent to his enlargement; but Grangeneuve was implacable, and Jonneau continued in priſon till releaſed by the means above mentioned. It is obſervable, that at this dreadful moment the utmoſt ſtrictneſs was obſerved, and every form literally enforced in granting the diſcharge of a priſoner. A ſuſpenſion of all laws, human and divine, was allowed to the aſſaſſins, while thoſe only that ſecured them their victims were rigidly adhered to.
Perhaps the real ſang froid I have before noticed, and theſe pretenſionſ to ſenſibility, are a natural conſequence one or the other. It is the hiſtory of the beaſt's confeſſion—we have only to be particularly deficient in any quality, to make us ſolicitous for the reputation of it; and after a long habit of deceiving others we finiſh by deceiving ourſelves. He who feels no compaſſion for the diſtreſſes of hiſ neighbour, knows that ſuch indifference is not very eſtimable; he therefore ſtudies to diſguiſe the coldneſs of his heart by the exaggeration of his language, and ſupplies, by an affected exceſs of ſentiment, the total abſence of it.—The gods have not (as you know) made me poetical, nor do I often tax your patience with a ſimile, but I think this French ſenſibility is to genuine feeling, what their paſte is to the diamond—it gratifies the vanity of the wearer, and deceives the eye of the ſuperficial obſerver, but is of little uſe or value, and when tried by the fire of adverſity quickly diſappears.
You are not much obliged to me for this long letter, as I own I have ſcribbled rather for my own amuſement than with a view to yours.— Contrary to our expectation, the trial of the King has begun; and, though I cannot properly be ſaid to have any real intereſt in the affairs of this country, I take a very ſincere one in the fate of its unfortunate Monarch—indeed our whole houſe has worn an appearance of dejection ſince the commencement of the buſineſs. Moſt people ſeem to expect it will terminate favourably, and, I believe, there are few who do not wiſh it. Even the Convention ſeem at preſent diſpoſed to be merciful; and as they judge now, ſo may they be judged hereafter!
—Yours.
I do all poſſible juſtice to the liberality of my countrymen, who are become ſuch paſſionate admirers of the French; and I cannot but lament their having been ſo unfortunate in the choice of the aera from whence they date this new friendſhip. It is, however, a proof, that their regards are not much the effect of that kind of vanity which eſteemſ objects in proportion as they are eſteemed by the reſt of the world; and the ſincerity of an attachment cannot be better evinced than by itſ ſurviving irretrievable diſgrace and univerſal abhorrence. Many will ſwell the triumph of a hero, or add a trophy to his tomb; but he who exhibits himſelf with a culprit at the gallows, or decorates the gibbet with a wreath, is a friend indeed.
If ever the character of a people were repugnant to amity, or inimical to connection, it is that of the French for the laſt three years.—*
* The editor of the Courier de l'Egalite, a moſt decided patriot, thus expreſſes himſelf on the injuries and inſults received by the King from the Pariſians, and their municipality, previous to hiſ trial: "I know that Louis is guilty—but are we to double his puniſhment before it is pronounced by the law? Indeed one is tempted to ſay that, inſtead of being guided by the humanity and philoſophy which dictated the revolution, we have taken leſſons of barbarity from the moſt ferocious ſavageſ! Let us be virtuous if we would be republicans; if we go on as we do, we never ſhall, and muſt have recourſe to a deſpot: for of two evils it is better to chooſe the leaſt."
The editor, whoſe opinion of the preſent politics is thus expreſſed, iſ ſo truly a revolutioniſt, and ſo confidential a patriot, that, in Auguſt laſt, when almoſt all the journaliſts were murdered, his paper was the only one that, for ſome time, was allowed to reach the departments.
In this ſhort ſpace they have formed a compendium of all the vices which have marked as many preceding ages:—the cruelty and treachery of the league—the ſedition, levity, and intrigue of the Fronde [A name given to the party in oppoſition to the court during Cardinal Mazarin'ſ miniſtry.—See the origin of it in the Memoirs of that period.] with the licentiouſneſs and political corruption of more modern epochs. Whether you examine the conduct of the nation at large, or that of its chiefs and leaders, your feelings revolt at the one, and your integrity deſpiſes the other. You ſee the idols erected by Folly, degraded by Caprice;—the authority obtained by Intrigue, bartered by Profligacy;—and the perfidy and corruption of one ſide ſo balanced by the barbarity and levity of the other, that the mind, unable to decide on the preference of contending vices, is obliged to find repoſe, though with regret and diſguſt, in acknowledging the general depravity.
La Fayette, without very extraordinary pretenſions, became the hero of the revolution. He dictated laws in the Aſſembly, and preſcribed oathſ to the Garde Nationale—and, more than once, inſulted, by the triumph of oſtentatious popularity, the humiliation and diſtreſs of a perſecuted Sovereign. Yet when La Fayette made an effort to maintain the conſtitution to which he owed his fame and influence, he was abandoned with the ſame levity with which he had been adopted, and ſunk, in an inſtant, from a dictator to a fugitive!
Neckar was an idol of another deſcription. He had already departed for his own country, when he was hurried back precipitately, amidſt univerſal acclamations. All were full of projects either of honour or recompence— one was for decreeing him a ſtatue, another propoſed him a penſion, and a third hailed him the father of the country. But Mr. Neckar knew the French character, and very wiſely declined theſe pompous offers; for before he could have received the firſt quarter of his penſion, or the ſtatue could have been modelled, he was glad to eſcape, probably not without ſome apprehenſions for his head!
The reign of Mirabeau was ſomething longer. He lived with popularity, was fortunate enough to die before his reputation was exhauſted, waſ depoſited in the Pantheon, apotheoſiſed in form, and his buſt placed as a companion to that of Brutus, the tutelary genius of the Aſſembly.—Here, one might have expected, he would have been quit for this world at leaſt; but the fame of a patriot is not ſecured by his death, nor can the godſ of the French be called immortal: the deification of Mirabeau iſ ſuſpended, his memory put in ſequeſtration, and a committee appointed to enquire, whether a profligate, expenſive, and neceſſitous character waſ likely to be corruptible. The Convention, too, ſeem highly indignant that a man, remarkable only for vice and atrocity, ſhould make no conſcience of betraying thoſe who were as bad as himſelf; and that, after having proſtituted his talents from the moment he was conſcious of them, he ſhould not, when aſſociated with ſuch immaculate colleagues, become pure and diſintereſted. It is very probable that Mirabeau, whoſe only aim was power, might rather be willing to ſhare it with the King, aſ Miniſter, than with ſo many competitors, and only as Prime Speechmaker to the Aſſembly: and as he had no reaſon for ſuſpecting the patriotiſm of others to be more inflexible than his own, he might think it not impolitic to anticipate a little the common courſe of things, and betray his companions, before they had time to ſtipulate for felling him. He might, too, think himſelf more juſtified in diſpoſing of them in the groſs, becauſe he did not thereby deprive them of their right of bargaining for themſelves, and for each other in detail.—*
* La Porte, Steward of the Houſehold, in a letter to Duqueſnoy, [Not the brutal Duſquenoy hereafter mentioned.] dated February, 1791, informs him that Barrere, Chairman of the Committee of Domains, iſ in the beſt diſpoſition poſſible.—A letter of Talon, (then miniſter,) with remarks in the margin by the King, ſays, that "Sixteen of the moſt violent members on the patriotic ſide may be brought over to the court, and that the expence will not exceed two millions of livres: that fifteen thouſand will be ſufficient for the firſt payment; and only a Yes or No from his Majeſty will fix theſe members in his intereſt, and direct their future conduct."—It likewiſe obſerves, that theſe two millions will coſt the King nothing, as the affair is already arranged with the Liquidator-General.
Extract of a letter from Chambonas to the King, dated June 18, 1792:
"Sire, "I inform your Majeſty, that my agents are now in motion. I have juſt been converting an evil ſpirit. I cannot hope that I have made him good, but I believe I have neutralized him.—To-night we ſhall make a ſtrong effort to gain Santerre, (Commandant of the Garde Nationale,) and I have ordered myſelf to be awakened to hear the reſult. I ſhall take care to humour the different intereſts as well as I can.—The Secretary of the Cordeliers club is now ſecured.—All theſe people are to be bought, but not one of them can be hired.—I have had with me one Mollet a phyſician. Perhaps your Majeſty may have heard of him. He is an outrageous Jacobin, and very difficult, for he will receive nothing. He inſiſts, previous to coming to any definitive treaty, on being named Phyſician to the Army. I have promiſed him, on condition that Paris is kept quiet for fifteen days. He is now gone to exert himſelf in our favour. He has great credit at the Caffe de Procope, where all the journaliſts and 'enragiſ' of the Fauxbourg St. Germain aſſemble. I hope he will keep his word.—The orator of the people, the noted Le Maire, a clerk at the Poſt-office, has promiſed tranquility for a week, and he is to be rewarded. "A new Gladiator has appeared lately on the ſcene, one Ronedie Breton, arrived from England. He has already been exciting the whole quarter of the Poiſonnerie in favour of the Jacobins, but I ſhall have him laid ſiege to.—Petion is to come to-morrow for fifteen thouſand livres, [This ſum was probably only to propitiate the Mayor; and if Chambonas, as he propoſed, refuſed farther payment, we may account for Petion's ſubſequent conduct.] on account of thirty thouſand per month which he received under the adminiſtration of Dumouriez, for the ſecret ſervice of the police.— I know not in virtue of what law this was done, and it will be the laſt he ſhall receive from me. Your Majeſty will, I doubt not, underſtand me, and approve of what I ſuggeſt. (Signed) "Chambonas." Extract from the Papers found at the Thuilleries. It is impoſſible to warrant the authenticity of theſe Papers; on their credibility, however, reſts the whole proof of the moſt weighty charges brought againſt the King. So that it muſt be admitted, that either all the firſt patriots of the revolution, and many of thoſe ſtill in repute, are corrupt, or that the King waſ condemned on forged evidence.
The King might alſo be ſolicitous to purchaſe ſafety and peace at any rate; and it is unfortunate for himſelf and the country that he had not recourſe to the only effectual means till it was too late. But all thiſ reſts on no better evidence than the papers found at the Thuilleries; and as ſomething of this kind was neceſſary to nouriſh the exhauſted fury of the populace, I can eaſily conceive that it was thought more prudent to ſacrifice the dead, than the living; and the fame of Mirabeau being leſſ valuable than the ſafety of thoſe who ſurvived him, there would be no great harm in attributing to him what he was very likely to have done.— The corruption of a notorious courtier would have made no impreſſion: the King had already been overwhelmed with ſuch accuſations, and they had loſt their effect: but to have ſeduced the virtuous Mirabeau, the very Confucius of the revolution, was a kind of profanation of the holy fire, well calculated to revive the languid rage, and extinguiſh the ſmall remains of humanity yet left among the people.
It is ſufficiently remarkable, that notwithſtanding the court muſt have ſeen the neceſſity of gaining over the party now in power, no veſtige of any attempt of this kind has been diſcovered; and every criminating negotiation is aſcribed to the dead, the abſent, or the inſignificant. I do not, however, preſume to decide in a caſe ſo very delicate; their panegyriſts in England may adjuſt the claims of Mirabeau's integrity, and that of his accuſers, at their leiſure.
Another patriot of "diſtinguiſhed note," and more peculiarly intereſting to our countrymen, becauſe he has laboured much for their converſion, iſ Talleyrand, Biſhop of Autun.—He was in England ſome time aſ Plenipotentiary from the Jacobins, charged with eſtabliſhing treatieſ between the clubs, publiſhing ſeditious manifeſtoes, contracting friendly alliances with diſcontented ſcribblers, and gaining over neutral or hoſtile newſpapers.—But, beſides his political and eccleſiaſtical occupations, and that of writing letters to the Conſtitutional Society, it ſeems this induſtrious Prelate had likewiſe a correſpondence with the Agents of the Court, which, though he was too modeſt to ſurcharge hiſ fame by publiſhing it, was, nevertheleſs, very profitable.
I am ſorry his friends in England are moſtly averſe from epiſcopacy, otherwiſe they might have provided for him, as I imagine he will have no objection to relinquiſh his claims on the ſee of Autun. He is not under accuſation, and, were he to return, he would not find the laws quite ſo ceremonious here as in England. After labouring with impunity for monthſ together to promote an inſurrection with you, a ſmall private barter of his talents would here coſt him his head; and I appeal to the Biſhop'ſ friends in England, whether there can be a proper degree of freedom in a country where a man is refuſed the privilege of diſpoſing of himſelf to the beſt advantage.
To the eternal obloquy of France, I muſt conclude, in the liſt of thoſe once popular, the ci-devant Duke of Orleans. But it was an unnatural popularity, unaided by a ſingle talent, or a ſingle virtue, ſupported only by the venal efforts of thoſe who were almoſt his equals in vice, though not in wealth, and who found a grateful exerciſe for their abilities in at once profiting by the weak ambition of a bad man, and corrupting the public morals in his favour. The unrighteous compact iſ now diſſolved; thoſe whom he ruined himſelf to bribe have already forſaken him, and perhaps may endeavour to palliate the diſgrace of having been called his friends, by becoming his perſecutors.—Thus, many of the primitive patriots are dead, or fugitives, or abandoned, or treacherous; and I am not without fear leſt the new race ſhould prove aſ evaneſcent as the old.
The virtuous Rolland,* whoſe firſt reſignation was ſo inſtrumental in dethroning the King, has now been obliged to reſign a ſecond time, charged with want of capacity, and ſuſpected of malverſation; and thiſ virtue, which was ſo irreproachable, which it would have been ſo dangerous to diſpute while it ſerved the purpoſes of party, is become hypocriſy, and Rolland will be fortunate if he return to obſcurity with only the loſs of his gains and his reputation.
* In the beginning of December, the Council-General of the municipality of Paris opened a regiſter, and appointed a Committee to receive all accuſations and complaints whatever againſt Rolland, who, in return, ſummoned them to deliver in their accounts to him aſ Miniſter of the interior, and accuſed them, at the ſame time, of the moſt ſcandalous peculations.
The credit of Briſſot and the Philoſophers is declining faſt—the clubſ are unpropitious, and no party long ſurvives this formidable omen; ſo that, like Macbeth, they will have waded from one crime to another, only to obtain a ſhort-lived dominion, at the expence of eternal infamy, and an unlamented fall.
Dumouriez is ſtill a ſucceſſful General, but he is denounced by one faction, inſulted by another, inſidiouſly praiſed by a third, and, if he ſhould perſevere in ſerving them, he has more diſintereſted rectitude than I ſuſpect him of, or than they merit. This is another of that Jacobin miniſtry which proved ſo fatal to the King; and it is evident that, had he been permitted to entertain the ſame opinion of all theſe people as they now profeſs to have of each other, he would have been ſtill living, and ſecure on his throne.
After ſo many mutual infidelities, it might be expected that one party would grow indifferent, and the other ſuſpicious; but the French never deſpair: new hordes of patriots prepare to poſſeſs themſelves of the places they are forcing the old ones to abandon, and the people, eager for change, are ready to receive them with the momentary and fallaciouſ enthuſiaſm which ever precedes diſgrace; while thoſe who are thuſ intriguing for power and influence, are, perhaps, ſecretly deviſing how it may be made moſt ſubſervient to their perſonal advantage.
Yet, perhaps, theſe amiable levities may not be diſpleaſing to the Conſtitutional Society and the revolutioniſts of England; and, as the very faults of our friends are often endearing to us, they may extend their indulgence to the "humane" and "liberal" precepts of the Jacobins, and the maſſacres of September.—To confeſs the truth, I am not a little aſhamed for my country when I ſee addreſſes from England to a Convention, the members of which have juſt been accuſing each other of aſſaſſination and robbery, or, in the ardour of a debate, threatening, cuffing, and knocking each other down. Excluſive of their moral character, conſidered only as it appears from their reciprocal criminations, they have ſo little pretenſion to dignity, or even decency, that it ſeems a mockery to addreſs them as the political repreſentatives of a powerful nation deliberating upon important affairs.
If a bearer of one of theſe congratulatory compliments were not apprized of the forms of the Houſe, he would be rather aſtoniſhed, at hiſ introduction, to ſee one member in a menacing attitude, and another denying his veracity in terms perfectly explicit, though not very civil. Perhaps, in two minutes, the partizans of each opponent all riſe and clamour, as if preparing for a combat—the Preſident puts on his hat aſ the ſignal of a ſtorm—the ſubordinate diſputants are appeaſed—and the revilings of the principal ones renewed; till, after torrents of indecent language, the quarrel is terminated by a fraternal embrace.*—I think, after ſuch a ſcene, an addreſſer muſt feel a little humiliated, and would return without finding his pride greatly increaſed by his miſſion.
* I do not make any aſſertions of this nature from conjecture or partial evidence. The journals of the time atteſt that the ſcenes I deſcribe occur almoſt in every debate.—As a proof, I ſubjoin ſome extracts taken nearly at hazard: "January 7th, Convention Nationale, Preſidence de Treilhard.—The debate was opened by an addreſs from the department of Finiſterre, expreſſing their wiſhes, and adding, that theſe were likewiſe the wiſhes of the nation at large—that Marat, Robeſpierre, Bazire, Chabot, Merlin, Danton, and their accomplices, might be expelled the Convention as caballers and intriguers paid by the tyrants at war with France." The account of this debate is thus continued—"The almoſt daily troubles which ariſe in the Convention were on the point of being renewed, when a member, a friend to order, ſpoke as follows, and, it is remarked, was quietly liſtened to: "'Citizens, "'If three months of uninterrupted ſilence has given me any claim to your attention, I now aſk it in the name of our afflicted country. Were I to continue ſilent any longer, I ſhould render myſelf aſ culpable as thoſe who never hold their tongues. I ſee we are all ſenſible of the painfulneſs of our ſituation. Every day diſſatiſfied with ourſelves, we come to the debate with the intention of doing ſomething, and every day we return without having done any thing. The people expect from us wiſe laws, and not ſtormſ and tumults. How are we to make theſe wiſe laws, and keep twenty-five millions of people quiet, when we, who are only ſeven hundred and fifty individuals, give an example of perpetual riot and diſorder? What ſignifies our preaching the unity and indiviſibility of the republic, when we cannot maintain peace and union amongſt ourſelves? What good can we expect to do amidſt ſuch ſcandalouſ diſturbances, and while we ſpend our time in attending to informations, accuſations, and inculpations, for the moſt part utterly unfounded? For my part, I ſee but one means of attaining any thing like dignity and tranquillity, and that is, by ſubmitting ourſelves to coercive regulations.'" Here follow ſome propoſals, tending to eſtabliſh a little decency in their proceedings for the future; but the account from whence thiſ extract is taken proceeds to remark, that this invitation to peace was no ſooner finiſhed, than a new ſcene of diſturbance took place, to the great loſs of their time, and the ſcandal of all good citizens. One ſhould imagine, that if ever the Convention could think it neceſſary to aſſume an appearance of dignity, or at leaſt of ſeriouſneſs and order, it would be in giving their judgement relative to the King. Yet, in determining how a ſeries of queſtionſ ſhould be diſcuſſed, on the arrangement of which his fate ſeems much to have depended, the ſolemnity of the occaſion appears to have had no weight. It was propoſed to begin by that of the appeal to the people. This was ſo violently combated, that the Convention would hear neither party, and were a long time without debating at all. Petion mounted the tribune, and attempted to reſtore order; but the noiſe was too great for him to be heard. He at length, however, obtained ſilence enough to make a motion. Again the murmurſ recommenced. Rabaud de St. Etienne made another attempt, but waſ equally unſucceſſful. Thoſe that were of an oppoſite opinion refuſed to hear him, and both parties roſe up and ruſhed together to the middle of the Hall. The moſt dreadful tumult took place, and the Preſident, with great difficulty, procured a calm. Again the ſtorm began, and a member told them, that if they voted in the affirmative, thoſe on the left ſide (Robeſpierre, &c.) would not wait the reſult, but have the King aſſaſſinated. "Yeſ! Yeſ! (reſounded from all parts) the Scelerats of Paris will murder him!" —Another violent diſorder enſuing, it was thought no decree could be paſſed, and, at length, amidſt this ſcene of riot and confuſion, the order of queſtions was arranged, and in ſuch a manner as to decide the fate of the King.—It was determined, that the queſtion of his guilt ſhould precede that of the appeal to the people. Had the order of the queſtions been changed, the King might have been ſaved, for many would have voted for the appeal in the firſt inſtance who did not dare do it when they found the majority reſolved to pronounce him guilty.
It is very remarkable, that, on the ſame day on which the friends of liberty and equality of Mancheſter ſignalized themſelves by a moſt patriotic compliment to the Convention, beginning with "Francais, vouſ etes libres," ["Frenchmen, you are free."] they were, at that very moment, employed in diſcuſſing a petition from numbers of Pariſians who had been thrown into priſon without knowing either their crime or their accuſers, and were ſtill detained under the ſame arbitrary circumſtances.—The law of the conſtitution is, that every perſon arreſted ſhall be interrogated within twenty-four hours; but as theſe impriſonments were the work of the republican Miniſters, the Convention ſeemed to think it indelicate to interpoſe, and theſe citizens of a country whoſe freedom is ſo much envied by the Mancheſter Society, will moſt likely remain in durance as long as their confinement ſhall be convenient to thoſe who have placed them there.—A ſhort time after, Villette, who is a news-writer and deputy, was cited to appear before the municipality of Paris, under the charge of having inſerted in his paper "equivocal phraſes and anti-civic expreſſions, tending to diminiſh the confidence due to the municipality."—Villette, as being a member of the Convention, obtained redreſs; but had he been only a journaliſt, the liberty of the preſs would not have reſcued him.—On the ſame day, complaint was made in the Aſſembly, that one man had been arreſted inſtead of another, and confined for ſome weeks, and it was agreed unanimouſly, (a thing that does not often occur,) that the powerſ exerciſed by the Committee of Inſpection [Surveillance.—See Debates, December.] were incompatible with liberty.
The patriots of Belfaſt were not more fortunate in the adaption of their civilitieſ—they addreſſed the Convention, in a ſtrain of great piety, to congratulate them on the ſucceſs of their arms in the "cauſe of civil and religious liberty."*
* At this time the municipalities were empowered to ſearch all houſes by night or day; but their viſites domiciliaires, as they are called, being made chiefly in the night, a decree has ſince ordained that they ſhall take place only during the day. Perhaps an Engliſhman may think the latter quite ſufficient, conſidering that France is the freeeſt country in the world, and, above all, a republic.
The harangue was interrupted by the mal-a-propoſ entrance of two deputies, who complained of having been beaten, almoſt hanged, and half drowned, by the people of Chartres, for belonging, as they were told, to an aſſembly of atheiſtical perſecutors of religion; and this Convention, whom the Society of Belfaſt admire for propagating "religious liberty" in other countries, were in a few days humbly petitioned, from variouſ departments, not to deſtroy it in their own. I cannot, indeed, ſuppoſe they have really ſuch a deſign; but the contempt with which they treat religion has occaſioned an alarm, and given the French an idea of their piety very different from that ſo kindly conceived by the patriots of Belfaſt.
I entruſt this to our friend Mrs. ____, who is leaving France in a few days; and as we are now on the eve of a war, it will be the laſt letter you will receive, except a few lines occaſionally on our private affairs, or to inform you of my health. As we cannot, in the ſtate Mrs. D____ iſ in, think of returning to England at preſent, we muſt truſt ourſelves to the hoſpitality of the French for at leaſt a few weeks, and I certainly will not abuſe it, by ſending any remarks on their political affairs out of the country. But as I know you intereſt yourſelf much in the ſubject, and read with partiality my attempts to amuſe you, I will continue to throw my obſervations on paper as regularly as I have been accuſtomed to do, and I hope, ere long, to be the bearer of the packets myſelf. I here alſo renew my injunction, that no part of my correſpondence that relateſ to French politics be communicated to any one, not even my mother. What I have written has been merely to gratify your own curioſity, and I ſhould be extremely mortified if my opinions were repeated even in the little circle of our private acquaintance. I deem myſelf perfectly juſtifiable in imparting my reflections to you, but I have a ſort of delicacy that revolts at the thought of being, in the remoteſt degree, acceſſary to conveying intelligence from a country in which I reſide, and which is ſo peculiarly ſituated as France is at this moment. My feelings, my humanity, are averſe from thoſe who govern, but I ſhould regret to be the means of injuring them. You cannot miſtake my intentions, and I conclude by ſeriouſly reminding you of the promiſe I exacted previous to any political diſcuſſion.—Adieu.
I did not, as I promiſed, write immediately on my return from Chantilly; the perſon by whom I intended to ſend my letter having already ſet out for England, and the rule I have obſerved for the laſt three months of entruſting nothing to the poſt but what relates to our family affairs, is now more than ever neceſſary. I have before requeſted, and I muſt now inſiſt, that you make no alluſion to any political matter whatever, nor even mention the name of any political perſon. Do not imagine that you are qualified to judge of what is prudent, or what may be written with ſafety—I repeat, no one in England can form an idea of the ſuſpicion that pervades every part of the French government.
I cannot venture to anſwer deciſively your queſtion reſpecting the King— indeed the ſubject is ſo painful to me, that I have hitherto avoided reverting to it. There certainly was, as you obſerve, ſome ſudden alteration in the diſpoſitions of the Aſſembly between the end of the trial and the final judgement. The cauſes were moſt probably various, and muſt be ſought for in the worſt vices of our nature—cruelty, avarice, and cowardice. Many, I doubt not, were guided only by the natural malignity of their hearts; many acted from fear, and expected to purchaſe impunity for former compliances with the court by this popular expiation; a large number are alſo ſuppoſed to have been paid by the Duke of Orleanſ—whether for the gratification of malice or ambition, time muſt develope.—But, whatever were the motives, the reſult was an iniquitous combination of the worſt of a ſet of men, before ſelected from all that was bad in the nation, to profane the name of juſtice—to ſacrifice an unfortunate, but not a guilty Prince—and to fix an indelible ſtain on the country.
Among thoſe who gave their opinion at large, you will obſerve Paine: and, as I intimated in a former letter, it ſeems he was at that time rather allured by the vanity of making a ſpeech that ſhould be applauded, than by any real deſire of injuring the King. Such vanity, however, is not pardonable: a man has a right to ruin himſelf, or to make himſelf ridiculous; but when his vanity becomes baneful to others, as it has all the effect, ſo does it merit the puniſhment, of vice.
Of all the reſt, Condorcet has moſt powerfully diſguſted me. The avowed wickedneſs of Thuriot or Marat inſpires one with horror; but this cold philoſophic hypocrite excites contempt as well as deteſtation. He ſeemſ to have wavered between a deſire to preſerve the reputation of humanity, which he has affected, and that of gratifying the real depravity of hiſ mind. Would one have expected, that a ſpeech full of benevolent ſyſtems, mild ſentiments, and averſion from the effuſion of human blood, was to end in a vote for, and recommendation of, the immediate execution of hiſ ſovereign?—But ſuch a conduct is worthy of him, who has repaid the benefits of his patron and friend [The Duke de la Rochefaucault.] by a perſecution which ended in his murder.
You will have ſeen, that the King made ſome trifling requeſts to be granted after his deceaſe, and that the Convention ordered him to be told, that the nation, "always great, always juſt," accorded them in part. Yet this juſt and magnanimous people refuſed him a preparation of only three days, and allowed him but a few hourſ—ſuffered his remains to be treated with the moſt ſcandalous indecency—and debated ſeriouſly, whether or no the Queen ſhould receive ſome little tokens of affection he had left for her.
The King's enemies had ſo far ſucceeded in depreciating his perſonal courage, that even his friends were apprehenſive he might not ſuſtain hiſ laſt moments with dignity. The event proves how much injuſtice has been done him in this reſpect, as well as in many others. His behaviour waſ that of a man who derived his fortitude from religion—it was that of pious reſignation, not oſtentatious courage; it was marked by none of thoſe inſtances of levity and indifference which, at ſuch a time, are rather ſymptoms of diſtraction than reſolution; he exhibited the compoſure of an innocent mind, and the ſeriouſneſs that became the occaſion; he ſeemed to be occupied in preparing for death, but not to fear it.—I doubt not but the time will come, when thoſe who have ſacrificed him may envy the laſt moments of Louis the Sixteenth!
That the King was not guilty of the principal charges brought againſt him, has been proved indubitably—not altogether by the aſſertions of thoſe who favour him, but by the confeſſion of his enemies. He was, for example, accuſed of planning the inſurrection of the tenth of Auguſt; yet not a day paſſes that both parties in the Convention are not diſputing the priority of their efforts to dethrone him, and to erect a republic; and they date their machinations long before the period on which they attribute the firſt aggreſſion to the King.—Mr. Sourdat, and ſeveral other writers, have very ably demonſtrated the falſehood of theſe charges; but the circulation of ſuch pamphlets was dangerouſ—of courſe, ſecret and limited; while thoſe which tended to deceive and prejudice the people were diſperſed with profuſion, at the expence of the government.*
* Poſtſcript of the Courier de l'Egalite, Sept. 29: "The preſent miniſter (Rolland) takes every poſſible means in hiſ power to enlighten and inform the people in whatever concerns their real intereſts. For this purpoſe he has cauſed to be printed and diſtributed, in abundance, the accounts and papers relative to the events of the tenth of Auguſt. We have yet at our office a ſmall number of theſe publications, which we have diſtributed to our ſubſcribers, and we ſtill give them to any of our fellow-citizenſ who have opportunities of circulating them."
I have ſeen one of theſe written in coarſe language, and replete with vulgar abuſe, purpoſely calculated for the lower claſſes in the country, who are more open to groſs impoſitions than thoſe of the ſame rank in towns; yet I have no doubt, in my own mind, that all theſe artificeſ would have proved unavailing, had the deciſion been left to the nation at large: but they were intimidated, if not convinced; and the mandate of the Convention, which forbids this ſovereign people to exerciſe their judgement, was obeyed with as much ſubmiſſion, and perhaps more reluctance, than an edict of Louis the fourteenth.*
* The King appealed, by his counſel, to the People; but the convention, by a decree, declared his appeal of no validity, and forbade all perſons to pay attention to it, under the ſevereſt penalties.
The French ſeem to have no energy but to deſtroy, and to reſiſt nothing but gentleneſs or infancy. They bend under a firm or oppreſſive adminiſtration, but become reſtleſs and turbulent under a mild Prince or a minority.
The fate of this unfortunate Monarch has made me reflect, with great ſeriouſneſs, on the conduct of our oppoſition-writers in England. The literary banditti who now govern France began their operations by ridiculing the King's private character—from ridicule they proceeded to calumny, and from calumny to treaſon; and perhaps the firſt libel that degraded him in the eyes of his ſubjects opened the path from the palace to the ſcaffold.—I do not mean to attribute the ſame perniciouſ intentions to the authors on your ſide the Channel, as I believe them, for the moſt part, to be only mercenary, and that they would write panegyrics as ſoon as ſatires, were they equally profitable. I know too, that there is no danger of their producing revolutions in England—we do not ſuffer our principles to be corrupted by a man becauſe he has the art of rhyming nothings into conſequence, nor ſuffer another to overturn the government becauſe he is an orator. Yet, though theſe men may not be very miſchievous, they are very reprehenſible; and, in a moment like the preſent, contempt and neglect ſhould ſupply the place of that puniſhment againſt which our liberty of the preſs ſecures them.
It is not for a perſon no better informed than myſelf to pronounce on ſyſtems of government—ſtill leſs do I affect to have more enlarged notions than the generality of mankind; but I may, without riſking thoſe imputations, venture to ſay, I have no childiſh or irrational deference for the perſons of Kings. I know they are not, by nature, better than other men, and a neglected or vicious education may often render them worſe. This does not, however, make me leſs reſpect the office. I reſpect it as the means choſen by the people to preſerve internal peace and order—to baniſh corruption and petty tyrants ["And fly from petty tyrants to the throne."—Goldſmith]—and give vigour to the execution of the laws.
Regarded in this point of view, I cannot but lament the mode which haſ lately prevailed of endeavouring to alienate the conſideration due to our King's public character, by perſonal ridicule. If an individual were attacked in this manner, his houſe beſet with ſpies, his converſation with his family liſtened to, and the moſt trifling actions of his life recorded, it would be deemed unfair and illiberal, and he who ſhould practice ſuch meanneſs would be thought worthy of no puniſhment more reſpectful than what might be inflicted by an oaken cenſor, or an admonitory heel.—But it will be ſaid, a King is not an individual, and that ſuch a habit, or ſuch an amuſement, is beneath the dignity of hiſ character. Yet would it be but conſiſtent in thoſe who labour to prove, by the public acts of Kings, that they are leſs than men, not to exact, that, in their private lives, they ſhould be more.—The great prototype of modern ſatyriſts, Junius, does not allow that any credit ſhould be given a Monarch for his domeſtic virtues; is he then to be reduced to an individual, only to ſcrutinize his foibles, and is his ſtation to ſerve only as the medium of their publicity? Are theſe literary miners to penetrate the receſſes of private life, only to bring to light the droſs? Do they analyſe only to diſcover poiſons? Such employments may be congenial to their natures, but have little claim to public remuneration. The merit of a detractor is not much ſuperior to that of a flatterer; nor is a Prince more likely to be amended by imputed follies, than by undeſerved panegyrics. If any man wiſhed to repreſent his King advantageouſly, it could not be done better than by remarking, that, after all the watchings of aſſiduous neceſſity, and the laboriouſ reſearches of intereſted curioſity, it appears, that his private life affords no other ſubjects of ridicule than, that he is temperate, domeſtic, and oeconomical, and, as is natural to an active mind, wiſheſ to be informed of whatever happens not to be familiar to him. It were to be deſired that ſome of theſe accuſations were applicable to thoſe who are ſo much ſcandalized at them: but they are not littleneſſeſ—the littleneſs is in him who condeſcends to report them; and I have often wondered that men of genius ſhould make a traffic of gleaning from the refuſe of anti-chambers, and retailing the anecdotes of pages and footmen!
You will perceive the kind of publications I allude to; and I hope the ſituation of France, and the fate of its Monarch, may ſuggeſt to the authors a more worthy employ of their talents, than that of degrading the executive power in the eyes of the people.