I told you, I believe, in a former letter, that the people of Amiens were all ariſtocrates: they have, nevertheleſs, two extremely popular qualificationſ—I mean filth and incivility. I am, however, far from imputing either of them to the revolution. This groſſneſs of behavior has long exiſted under the palliating deſcription of "la franchiſe Picarde," ["Picardy frankneſs."] and the floors and ſtairs of many houſes will atteſt their preeminence in filth to be of a date much anterior to the revolution.—If you purchaſe to the amount of an hundred livres, there are many ſhopkeepers who will not ſend your purchaſes home; and if the articles they ſhow you do not anſwer your purpoſe, they are moſtly ſullen, and often rude. No appearance of fatigue or infirmity ſuggeſts to them the idea of offering you a ſeat; they contradict you with impertinence, addreſs you with freedom, and conclude with cheating you if they can. It was certainly on this account that Sterne would not agree to die at the inn at Amiens. He might, with equal juſtice, have objected to any other houſe; and I am ſure if he thought them an unpleaſant people to die amongſt, he would have found them ſtill worſe to live with.—My obſervation as to the civility of ariſtocrates does not hold good here—indeed I only meant that thoſe who ever had any, and were ariſtocrates, ſtill preſerved it.
Amiens has always been a commercial town, inhabited by very few of the higher nobleſſe; and the mere gentry of a French province are not very much calculated to give a tone of ſoftneſs and reſpect to thoſe who imitate them. You may, perhaps, be ſurprized that I ſhould expreſſ myſelf with little conſideration for a claſs which, in England, is ſo highly reſpectable: there gentlemen of merely independent circumſtanceſ are not often diſtinguiſhable in their manners from thoſe of ſuperior fortune or rank. But, in France, it is different: the inferior nobleſſe are ſtiff, ceremonious, and oſtentatious; while the higher ranks were always polite to ſtrangers, and affable to their dependents. When you viſit ſome of the former, you go through as many ceremonies as though you were to be inveſted with an order, and riſe up and ſit down ſo many times, that you return more fatigued than you would from a cricket match; while with the latter you are juſt as much at your eaſe as is conſiſtent with good breeding and propriety, and a whole circle is never put in commotion at the entrance and exit of every individual who makes part of it. Any one not prepared for theſe formalities, and who, for the firſt time, ſaw an aſſembly of twenty people all riſing from their ſeats at the entrance of a ſingle beau, would ſuppoſe they were preparing for a dance, and that the new comer was a muſician. For my part I always find it an oeconomy of ſtrength (when the locality makes it practicable) to take poſſeſſion of a window, and continue ſtanding in readineſs until the hour of viſiting is over, and calm is eſtabliſhed by the arrangement of the card tables.—The revolution has not annihilated the difference of rank; though it has effected the abolition of titles; and I counſel all who have remains of the gout or inflexible joints, not to frequent the houſeſ of ladies whoſe huſbands have been ennobled only by their offices, of thoſe whoſe genealogies are modern, or of the collaterals of ancient families, whoſe claims are ſo far removed as to be doubtful. The ſociety of all theſe is very exigent, and to be avoided by the infirm or indolent.
I ſend you with this a little collection of airs which I think you will find very agreeable. The French muſic has not, perhaps, all the reputation it is entitled to. Rouſſeau has declared it to be nothing but doleful pſalmodies; Gray calls a French concert "Une tintamarre de diable:" and the prejudices inſpired by theſe great names are not eaſily obliterated. We ſubmit our judgement to theirs, even when our taſte iſ refractory.—The French compoſers ſeem to excel in marches, in lively airs that abound in ſtriking paſſages calculated for the popular taſte, and yet more particularly in thoſe ſimple melodies they call romances: they are often in a very charming and ſingular ſtyle, without being either ſo delicate or affecting as the Italian. They have an expreſſion of plaintive tenderneſs, which makes one tranquil rather than melancholy; and which, though it be more ſoothing than intereſting, is very delightful.—Yours, &c.
I have been to-day to take a laſt view of the convents: they are now advertiſed for ſale, and will probably ſoon be demoliſhed. You know my opinion is not, on the whole, favourable to theſe inſtitutions, and that I thought the decree which extinguiſhes them, but which ſecured to the religious already profeſt the undiſturbed poſſeſſion of their habitationſ during life, was both politic and humane. Yet I could not ſee the preſent ſtate of theſe buildings without pain—they are now inhabited by volunteers, who are paſſing a novitiate of intemperance and idleneſs, previous to their reception in the army; and thoſe who recollect the peace and order that once reigned within the walls of a monaſtery, cannot but be ſtricken with the contraſt. I felt both for the expelled and preſent poſſeſſors, and, perhaps, gave a mental preference to the ſuperſtition which founded ſuch eſtabliſhments, over the perſecution that deſtroys them.
The reſigned and pious votaries, who once ſuppoſed themſelves ſecure from all the viciſſitudes of fortune, and whoſe union ſeemed diſſoluble only by the common lot of mortality, are now many of them diſperſed, wandering, friendleſs, and miſerable. The religion which they cheriſhed as a comfort, and practiſed as a duty, is now purſued as a crime; and it is not yet certain that they will not have to chooſe between an abjuration of their principles, and the relinquiſhment of the means of exiſtence.—The military occupiers offered nothing very alleviating to ſuch unpleaſant reflections; and I beheld with as much regret the collection of theſe ſcattered individuals, as the ſeparation of thoſe whoſe habitations they fill. They are moſt of them extremely young, taken from villages and the ſervice of agriculture, and are going to riſk their lives in a cauſe deteſted perhaps by more than three parts of the nation, and only to ſecure impunity to its oppreſſors.
It has uſually been a maxim in all civilized ſtates, that when the general welfare neceſſitates ſome act of partial injuſtice, it ſhall be done with the utmoſt conſideration for the ſufferer, and that the required ſacrifice of moral to political expediency ſhall be palliated, as much as the circumſtances will admit, by the manner of carrying it into execution. But the French legiſlators, in this reſpect, as in moſt others, truly original, diſdain all imitation, and are rarely guided by ſuch confined motives. With them, private rights are frequently violated, only to facilitate the means of public oppreſſionſ—and cruel and iniquitous decrees are rendered ſtill more ſo by the mode of enforcing them.
I have met with no perſon who could conceive the neceſſity of expelling the female religious from their convents. It was, however, done, and that with a mixture of meanneſs and barbarity which at once exciteſ contempt and deteſtation. The oſtenſible, reaſons were, that theſe communities afforded an aſylum to the ſuperſtitious, and that by their entire ſuppreſſion, a ſale of the houſes would enable the nation to afford the religious a more liberal ſupport than had been aſſigned them by the Conſtituent Aſſembly. But they are ſhallow politicians who expect to deſtroy ſuperſtition by perſecuting thoſe who practiſe it: and ſo far from adding, as the decree inſinuates, to the penſions of the nuns, they have now ſubjected them to an oath which, to thoſe at leaſt whoſe conſciences are timid, will act as a prohibition to their receiving what they were before entitled to.
The real intention of the legiſlature in thus entirely diſperſing the female religious, beſides the general hatred of every thing connected with religion, is, to poſſeſs itſelf of an additional reſource in the buildings and effects, and, as is imagined by ſome, to procure numerouſ and convenient ſtate priſons. But, I believe, the latter is only an ariſtocratic apprehenſion, ſuggeſted by the appropriation of the conventſ to this uſe in a few places, where the ancient priſons are full.— Whatever purpoſe it is intended to anſwer, it has been effected in a way diſgraceful to any national body, except ſuch a body as the Convention; and, though it be eaſy to perceive the cruelty of ſuch a meaſure, yet as, perhaps, its injuſtice may not ſtrike you ſo forcibly as if you had had the ſame opportunities of inveſtigating it as I have, I will endeavour to explain, as well as I can, the circumſtances that render it ſo peculiarly aggravated.
I need not remind you, that no order is of very modern foundation, nor that the preſent century has, in a great degree, exploded the faſhion of compounding for ſins by endowing religious inſtitutions. Thus, neceſſarily, by the great change which has taken place in the expence of living, many eſtabliſhments that were poorly endowed muſt have become unable to ſupport themſelves, but for the efforts of thoſe who were attached to them. It is true, that the rent of land has increaſed as itſ produce became more valuable; but every one knows that the landſ dependent on religious houſes have always been let on ſuch moderate terms, as by no means to bear a proportion to the neceſſities they were intended to ſupply; and as the monaſtic vows have long ceaſed to be the frequent choice of the rich, little increaſe has been made to the original ſtock by the acceſſion of new votaries:—yet, under all theſe diſadvantages, many ſocieties have been able to rebuild their houſes, embelliſh their churches, purchaſe plate, &c. &c. The love of their order, that ſpirit of oeconomy for which they are remarkable, and a perſevering induſtry, had their uſual effects, and not only baniſhed poverty, but became a ſource of wealth. An indefatigable labour at ſuch works as could be profitably diſpoſed of, the education of children, and the admiſſion of boarders, were the means of enriching a number of convents, whoſe proper revenues would not have afforded them even a ſubſiſtence.
But the fruits of active toil or voluntary privation, have been confounded with thoſe of expiatory bequeſt and miſtaken devotion, and have alike become the prey of a rapacious and unfeeling government. Many communities are driven from habitations built abſolutely with the produce of their own labour. In ſome places they were refuſed even their bedſ and linen; and the ſtock of wood, corn, &c. provided out of the ſavingſ of their penſions, (underſtood to be at their own diſpoſal,) have been ſeized, and ſold, without making them the ſmalleſt compenſation.
Thus deprived of every thing, they are ſent into the world with a prohibition either to live ſeveral of them together, wear their habits,* or practiſe their religion; yet their penſionſ** are too ſmall for them to live upon, except in ſociety, or to pay the uſual expence of boarding: many of them have no other means of procuring ſecular dreſſes, and ſtill more will imagine themſelves criminal in abſtaining from the mode of worſhip they have been taught to think ſalutary.
* Two religious, who boarded with a lady I had occaſion to ſee ſometimes, told me, that they had been ſtrictly enjoined not to dreſs like each other in any way. ** The penſions are from about ſeventeen to twenty-five poundſ ſterling per annum.—At the time I am writing, the neceſſaries of life are increaſed in price nearly two-fifths of what they bore formerly, and are daily becoming dearer. The Convention are not always inſenſible to thiſ—the pay of the foot ſoldier is more than doubled.
It is alſo to be remembered, that women of ſmall fortune in France often embraced the monaſtic life as a frugal retirement, and, by ſinking the whole they were poſſeſſed of in this way, they expected to ſecure a certain proviſion, and to place themſelves beyond the reach of future viciſſitudes: yet, though the ſums paid on theſe occaſions can be eaſily aſcertained, no indemnity has been made; and many will be obliged to violate their principles, in order to receive a trifling penſion, perhapſ much leſs than the intereſt of their money would have produced without loſs of the principal.
But the views of theſe legiſlating philoſophers are too ſublimely extenſive to take in the wrongs or ſufferings of contemporary individuals; and not being able to diſguiſe, even to themſelves, that they create much miſery at preſent, they promiſe incalculable advantageſ to thoſe who ſhall happen to be alive ſome centuries hence! Moſt of theſe poor nuns are, however, of an age to preclude them from the hope of enjoying this Millennium; and they would have been content en attendant theſe glorious times, not to be deprived of the neceſſaries of life, or marked out as objects of perſecution.
The private diſtreſſes occaſioned by the diſſolution of the convents are not the only conſequences to be regretted—for a time, at leaſt, the loſſ muſt certainly be a public one. There will now be no means of inſtruction for females, nor any refuge for thoſe who are without friendſ or relations: thouſands of orphans muſt be thrown unprotected on the world, and guardians, or ſingle men, left with the care of children, have no way to diſpoſe of them properly. I do not contend that the education of a convent is the beſt poſſible: yet are there many advantageſ attending it; and I believe it will readily be granted, that an education not quite perfect is better than no education at all. It would not be very difficult to prove, that the ſyſtems of education, both in England and France, are extremely defective; and if the characters of women are generally better formed in one than the other, it is not owing to the ſuperiority of boarding-ſchools over convents, but to the difference of our national manners, which tend to produce qualities not neceſſary, or not valued, in France.
The moſt diſtinguiſhed female excellencies in England are an attachment to domeſtic life, an attention to its oeconomies, and a cultivated underſtanding. Here, any thing like houſe-wifery is not expected but from the lower claſſes, and reading or information is confined chiefly to profeſſed wits. Yet the qualities ſo much eſteemed in England are not the effect of education: few domeſtic accompliſhments, and little uſeful knowledge, are acquired at a boarding-ſchool; but finally the national character aſſerts its empire, and the female who has gone through a courſe of frivolities from ſix to ſixteen, who has been taught that the firſt "human principle" ſhould be to give an elegant tournure to her perſon, after a few yearſ' diſſipation, becomes a good wife and mother, and a rational companion.
In France, young women are kept in great ſecluſion: religion and oeconomy form a principal part of conventual acquirements, and the natural vanity of the ſex is left to develope itſelf without the aid of authority, or inſtillation by precept—yet, when releaſed from this ſober tuition, manners take the aſcendant here as in England, and a woman commences at her marriage the aera of coquetry, idleneſs, freedom, and rouge.—We may therefore, I think, venture to conclude, that the education of a boarding-ſchool is better calculated for the rich, that of a convent for the middle claſſes and the poor; and, conſequently, that the ſuppreſſion of this laſt in France will principally affect thoſe to whom it was moſt beneficial, and to whom the want of it will be moſt dangerous.
A committee of wiſe men are now forming a plan of public inſtruction, which is to excel every thing ever adopted in any age or country; and we may therefore hope that the defects which have hitherto prevailed, both in theirs and our own, will be remedied. All we have to apprehend is, that, amidſt ſo many wiſe heads, more than one wiſe plan may be produced, and a difficulty of choice keep the riſing generation in a ſort of abeyance, ſo that they muſt remain ſterile, or may become vitiated, while it is determining in what manner they ſhall be cultivated.
It is almoſt a phraſe to ſay, the reſources of France are wonderful, and this is no leſs true than generally admitted. Whatever be the want or loſs, it is no ſooner known than ſupplied, and the imagination of the legiſlature ſeems to become fertile in proportion to the exigence of the moment.—I was in ſome pain at the diſgrace of Mirabeau, leſt this new kind of retroſpective judgement ſhould depopulate the Pantheon of the few divinities that remained; more eſpecially when I conſidered that Voltaire, notwithſtanding his merits as an enemy to revelation, had been already accuſed of ariſtocracy, and even Rouſſeau himſelf might not be found impeccable. His Contrat Social might not, perhaps, in the eyes of a committee of philoſophical Rhadmanthuſ's, atone for his occaſional admiration of chriſtianity: and thus ſome crime, either of church or ſtate, diſfranchiſe the whole race of immortals, and their fame ſcarcely outlaſt the diſpute about their earthly remains.*
* Alluding to the diſputes between the Convention and the perſon who claimed the excluſive right to the remains of Rouſſeau.
My concern, on this account, was the more juſtifiable, becauſe the great fallibility which prevailed among the patriots, and the very delicate ſtate of the reputation of thoſe who retained their political exiſtence, afforded no hope that they could ever fill the vacancies in the Pantheon.—But my fears were very ſuperfluouſ—France will never want ſubjects for an apotheoſis, and if one divinity be dethroned, "another and another ſtill ſucceeds," all equally worthy as long as they continue in faſhion.—The phrenzy of deſpair has ſupplied a ſucceſſor to Mirabeau, in Le Pelletier. [De St. Fargeau.] The latter had hitherto been little heard of, but his death offered an occaſion for exciting the people too favourable to be neglected: his patriotiſm and his virtues immediately increaſed in a ratio to the uſe which might be made of them;* a dying ſpeech proper for the purpoſe was compoſed, and it was decreed unanimouſly, that he ſhould be inſtalled in all the rights, privileges, and immortalities of the degraded Riquetti.—
* At the firſt intelligence of his death, a member of the Convention, who was with him, and had not yet had time to ſtudy a ſpeech, confeſſed his laſt words to have been, "Jai froid."—"I am cold." This, however, would nave made no figure on the banners of a funeral proceſſion; and Le Pelletier was made to die, like the hero of a tragedy, uttering blank verſe.
The funeral that preceded theſe divine awards was a farce, which tended more to provoke a maſſacre of the living, than to honour the dead; and the Convention, who vowed to ſacrifice their animoſities on his tomb, do ſo little credit to the conciliating influence of St. Fargeau's virtues, that they now diſpute with more acrimony than ever.
The departments, who begin to be extremely ſubmiſſive to Paris, thought it incumbent on them to imitate this ceremony; but as it was rather an act of fear than of patriotiſm, it was performed here with ſo much oeconomy, and ſo little inclination, that the whole was cold and paltry. —An altar was erected on the great market-place, and ſo little were the people affected by the cataſtrophe of a patriot whom they were informed had ſacrificed* his life in their cauſe, that the only part of the buſineſs which ſeemed to intereſt them was the extravagant geſtures of a woman in a dirty white dreſs, hired to act the part of a "pleureuſe," or mourner, and whoſe ſorrow appeared to divert them infinitely.—
* There is every reaſon to believe that Le Pelletier was not ſingled out for his patriotiſm.—It is ſaid, and with much appearance of probability, that he had promiſed PARIS, with whom he had been intimate, not to vote for the death of the King; and, on hiſ breaking his word, PARIS, who ſeems to have not been perfectly in his ſenſes, aſſaſſinated him.—PARIS had been in the Garde du Corps, and, like moſt of his brethren, was ſtrongly attached to the King'ſ perſon. Rage and deſpair prompted him to the commiſſion of an act, which can never be excuſed, however the perpetrator may imagine himſelf the mere inſtrument of Divine vengeance.—Notwithſtanding the moſt vigilant reſearch, he eſcaped for ſome time, and wandered as far as Forges d'Eaux, a little town in Normandy. At the inn where he lodged, the extravagance of his manner giving ſuſpicionſ that he was inſane, the municipality were applied to, to ſecure him. An officer entered his room while he was in bed, and intimated the purpoſe he was come for. PARIS affected to comply, and, turning, drew a piſtol from under the clothes, and ſhot himſelf.—Among the papers found upon him were ſome affecting lines, expreſſive of hiſ contempt for life, and adding, that the influence of his example waſ not to be dreaded, ſince he left none behind him that deſerved the name of Frenchmen!—"Qu'on n'inquiete perſonne! perſonne n'a ete mon complice dans la mort heureuſe de Scelerat St. Fargeau. Si Je ne l'euſſe pas rencontre ſous ma main, Je purgeois la France du regicide, du parricide, du patricide D'Orleans. Qu'on n'inquiete perſonne. Tous les Francois ſont des laches auxquelles Je diſ— "Peuple, dont les forfaits jettent partout l'effroi, "Avec calme et plaiſir J'abandonne la vie "Ce n'eſt que par la mort qu'on peut fuir l'infamie, "Qu'imprime ſur nos fronts le ſang de notre Roi." "Let no man be moleſted on my account: I had no accomplice in the fortunate death of the miſcreant St. Fargeau. If he had not fallen in my way, I ſhould have purged France of the regicide, parricide, patricide D'Orleans. Let no man be moleſted. All the French are cowards, to whom I ſay—'People, whoſe crimes inſpire univerſal horror, I quit life with tranquility and pleaſure. By death alone can we fly from that infamy which the blood of our King has marked upon our foreheadſ!'"—This paper was entitled "My Brevet of Honour."
It will ever be ſo where the people are not left to conſult their own feelings. The mandate that orders them to aſſemble may be obeyed, but "that which paſſeth ſhow" is not to be enforced. It is a limit preſcribed by Nature herſelf to authority, and ſuch is the averſion of the human mind from dictature and reſtraint, that here an official rejoicing is often more ſerious than theſe political exactions of regret levied in favour of the dead.—Yours, &c. &c.
The partizans of the French in England alledge, that the revolution, by giving them a government founded on principles of moderation and rectitude, will be advantageous to all Europe, and more eſpecially to Great Britain, which has ſo often ſuffered by wars, the fruit of their intrigues.—This reaſoning would be unanſwerable could the character of the people be changed with the form of their government: but, I believe, whoever examines its adminiſtration, whether as it relates to foreign powers or internal policy, will find that the ſame ſpirit of intrigue, fraud, deception, and want of faith, which dictated in the cabinet of Mazarine or Louvois, has been tranſfuſed, with the addition of meanneſſ and ignorance,* into a Conſtitutional Miniſtry, or the Republican Executive Council.
* The Executive Council is compoſed of men who, if ever they were well-intentioned, muſt be totally unfit for the government of an extenſive republic. Monge, the Miniſter of the Marine, is a profeſſor of geometry; Garat, Miniſter of Juſtice, a gazette writer; Le Brun, Miniſter of Foreign Affairs, ditto; and Pache, Miniſter of the Interior, a private tutor.—Whoever reads the debates of the Convention will find few indications of real talents, and much pedantry and ignorance. For example, Anacharſis Cloots, who is a member of the Committee of Public Inſtruction, and who one ſhould, of courſe, expect not to be more ignorant than his colleagues, haſ lately adviſed them to diſtreſs the enemy by invading Scotland, which he calls the granary of England.
France had not yet determined on the articles of her future political creed, when agents were diſpatched to make proſelytes in England, and, in proportion as ſhe aſſumed a more popular form of government, all the qualities which have ever marked her as the diſturber of mankind ſeem to have acquired new force. Every where the ambaſſadors of the republic are accuſed of attempts to excite revolt and diſcontent, and England* is now forced into a war becauſe ſhe could not be perſuaded to an inſurrection.
* For ſome time previous to the war, all the French prints and even members of the Convention, in their debates, announced England to be on the point of an inſurrection. The intrigues of Chauvelin, their ambaſſador, to verify this prediction, are well known. Briſſot, Le Brun, &c. who have ſince been executed, were particularly charged by the adverſe party with provoking the war with England. Robeſpierre, and thoſe who ſucceeded, were not ſo deſirous of involving us in a foreign war, and their humane efforts were directed merely to excite a civil one.—The third article of accuſation againſt Rolland is, having ſent twelve millions of livres to England, to aſſiſt in procuring a declaration of war.
Perhaps it may be ſaid, that the French have taken this part only for their own ſecurity, and to procure adherents to the common cauſe; but this is all I contend for—that the politics of the old government actuate the new, and that they have not, in aboliſhing courts and royalty, aboliſhed the perfidious ſyſtem of endeavouring to benefit themſelves, by creating diſtreſs and diſſention among their neighbours.— Louvois ſupplied the Proteſtants in the Low Countries with money, while he perſecuted them in France. The agents of the republic, more oeconomical, yet directed by the ſame motives, eke out corruption by precepts of ſedition, and arm the leaders of revolt with the rights of man; but, forgetting the maxim that charity ſhould begin at home, in their zeal for the freedom of other countries, they leave no portion of it for their own!
Louis the Fourteenth over-ran Holland and the Palatinate to plant the white flag, and lay the inhabitants under contribution—the republic ſend an army to plant the tree of liberty, levy a don patriotique, [Patriotic gift.] and place garriſons in the towns, in order to preſerve their freedom.—Kings have violated treaties from the deſire of conqueſt —theſe virtuous republicans do it from the deſire of plunder; and, previous to opening the Scheldt, the invaſion of Holland, was propoſed aſ a means of paying the expences of the war. I have never heard that even the moſt ambitious Potentates ever pretended to extend their ſubjugation beyond the perſons and property of the conquered; but theſe militant dogmatiſts claim an empire even over opinions, and inſiſt that no people can be free or happy unleſs they regulate their ideas of freedom and happineſs by the variable ſtandard of the Jacobin club. Far from being of Hudibraſ's philoſophy,* they ſeem to think the mind as tangible as the body, and that, with the aſſiſtance of an army, they may as ſoon lay one "by the heelſ" as the other.
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* "Quoth he, one half of man, his mind, "Is, ſui juris, unconfin'd, "And ne'er can be laid by the heels, "Whate'er the other moiety feels." Hudibras. |
Now this I conceive to be the worſt of all tyrannies, nor have I ſeen it exceeded on the French theatre, though, within the laſt year, the imagination of their poets has been peculiarly ingenious and inventive on this ſubject.—It is abſurd to ſuppoſe this vain and overbearing diſpoſition will ceaſe when the French government is ſettled. The intrigues of the popular party began in England the very moment they attained power, and long before there was any reaſon to ſuſpect that the Engliſh would deviate from their plan of neutrality. If, then, the French cannot reſtrain this miſchievous ſpirit while their own affairſ are ſufficient to occupy their utmoſt attention, it is natural to conclude, that, ſhould they once become eſtabliſhed, leiſure and peace will make them dangerous to the tranquillity of all Europe. Other governments may be improved by time, but republics always degenerate; and if that which is in its original ſtate of perfection exhibit already the maturity of vice, one cannot, without being more credulous than reaſonable, hope any thing better for the future than what we have experienced from the paſt.—It is, indeed, unneceſſary to detain you longer on this ſubject. You muſt, ere now, be perfectly convinced how far the revolutionary ſyſtems of France are favourable to the peace and happineſs of other countries. I will only add a few details which may aſſiſt you in judging of what advantage they have been to the French themſelves, and whether, in changing the form of their government, they have amended its principles; or if, in "conquering liberty," (as they expreſs it,) they have really become free.
The ſituation of France has altered much within the laſt two months: the ſeat of power is leſs fluctuating and the exerciſe of it more abſolute— arbitrary meaſures are no longer incidental, but ſyſtematic—and a regular connection of dependent tyranny is eſtabliſhed, beginning with the Jacobin clubs, and ending with the committees of the ſections. A ſimple decree for inſtance, has put all the men in the republic, (unmarried and without children,) from eighteen to forty-five at the requiſition of the Miniſter of War. A levy of three hundred thouſand iſ to take place immediately: each department is reſponſible for the whole of a certain number to the Convention, the diſtricts are anſwerable for their quota to the departments, the municipalities to the diſtrict, and the diligence of the whole is animated by itinerant members of the legiſlature, entruſted with the diſpoſal of an armed force. The latter circumſtance may ſeem to you incredible; yet is it nevertheleſs true, that moſt of the departments are under the juriſdiction of theſe ſovereigns, whoſe authority is nearly unlimited. We have, at thiſ moment, two Deputies in the town, who arreſt and impriſon at their pleaſure. One-and-twenty inhabitants of Amiens were ſeized a few nightſ ago, without any ſpecific charge having been exhibited againſt them, and are ſtill in confinement. The gates of the town are ſhut, and no one iſ permitted to paſs or repaſs without an order from the municipality; and the obſervance of this is exacted even of thoſe who reſide in the ſuburbs. Farmers and country people, who are on horſeback, are obliged to have the features and complexion of their horſes minuted on the paſſport with their own. Every perſon whom it is found convenient to call ſuſpicious, is deprived of his arms; and private houſes are diſturbed during the night, (in oppoſition to a poſitive law,) under pretext of ſearching for refractory prieſts.—Theſe regulations are not peculiar to this department, and you muſt underſtand them as conveying a general idea of what paſſes in every part of France.—I have yet to add, that letters are opened with impunity—that immenſe ſums of aſſignats are created at the will of the Convention—that no one is excuſed mounting guard in perſon—and that all houſekeepers, and even lodgers, are burthened with the quartering of troops, ſometimes as many as eight or ten, for weeks together.
You may now, I think, form a tolerable idea of the liberty that haſ accrued to the French from the revolution, the dethronement of the King, and the eſtabliſhment of a republic. But, though the French ſuffer thiſ deſpotiſm without daring to murmur openly, many a ſignificant ſhrug and doleful whiſper paſs in ſecret, and this political diſcontent has even its appropriate language, which, though not very explicit, is perfectly underſtood.—Thus when you hear one man ſay to another, "Ah, mon Dieu, on eſt bien malheureux dans ce moment ici;" or, "Nous ſommes dans une poſition tres critique—Je voudrois bien voir la fin de tout cela;" ["God knows, we are very miſerable at preſent—we are in a very critical ſituation—I ſhould like to ſee an end of all this."] you may be ſure he languiſhes for the reſtoration of the monarchy, and hopes with equal fervor, that he may live to ſee the Convention hanged. In theſe ſort of conferences, however, evaporates all their courage. They own their country is undone, that they are governed by a ſet of brigands, go home and hide any ſet of valuables they have not already ſecreted, and receive with obſequious complaiſance the next viſite domiciliaire.
The maſs of the people, with as little energy, have more obſtinacy, and are, of courſe, not quite ſo tractable. But, though they grumble and procraſtinate, they do not reſiſt; and their delays and demurs uſually terminate in implicit ſubmiſſion.
The Deputy-commiſſioners, whom I have mentioned above, have been at Amiens ſome time, in order to promote the levying of recruits. On Sundays and holidays they ſummoned the inhabitants to attend at the cathedral, where they harangued them on the ſubject, called for vengeance on the coaleſced deſpots, expatiated on the love of glory, and inſiſted on the pleaſure of dying for one's country: while the people liſtened with vacant attention, amuſed themſelves with the paintings, or adjourned in ſmall committees to diſcuſs the hardſhip of being obliged to fight without inclination.—Thus time elapſed, the military orations produced no effect, and no troops were raiſed: no one would enliſt voluntarily, and all refuſed to ſettle it by lot, becauſe, as they wiſely obſerved, the lot muſt fall on ſomebody. Yet, notwithſtanding the objection, the matter was at length decided by this laſt method. The deciſion had no ſooner taken place, than another difficulty enſued—thoſe who eſcaped acknowledged it was the beſt way that could be deviſed; but thoſe who were deſtined to the frontiers refuſed to go. Various altercations, and excuſes, and references, were the conſequence; yet, after all thiſ murmuring and evaſion, the preſence of the Commiſſioners and a few dragoons have arranged the buſineſs very pacifically; many are already gone, and the reſt will (if the dragoons continue here) ſoon follow.
This, I aſſure you, is a juſt ſtatement of the account between the Convention and the People: every thing is effected by fear—nothing by attachment; and the one is obeyed only becauſe the other want courage to reſiſt.—Yours, &c.
Rouen, like moſt of the great towns in France, is what is called decidedly ariſtocratic; that is, the rich are diſcontented becauſe they are without ſecurity, and the poor becauſe they want bread. But theſe complaints are not peculiar to large places; the cauſes of them equally exiſt in the ſmalleſt village, and the only difference which fixes the imputation of ariſtocracy on one more than the other, is, daring to murmur, or ſubmitting in ſilence.
I muſt here remark to you, that the term ariſtocrate has much varied from its former ſignification. A year ago, ariſtocrate implied one who was an advocate for the privileges of the nobility, and a partizan of the ancient government—at preſent a man is an ariſtocrate for entertaining exactly the ſame principles which at that time conſtituted a patriot; and, I believe, the computation is moderate, when I ſay, that more than three parts of the nation are ariſtocrates. The rich, who apprehend a violation of their property, are ariſtocrateſ—the merchants, who regret the ſtagnation of commerce, and diſtruſt the credit of the aſſignats, are ariſtocrateſ—the ſmall retailers, who are pillaged for not ſelling cheaper than they buy, and who find theſe outrages rather encouraged than repreſſed, are ariſtocrateſ—and even the poor, who murmur at the price of bread, and the numerous levies for the army, are, occaſionally, ariſtocrates.
Beſides all theſe, there are likewiſe various claſſes of moral ariſtocrateſ—ſuch as the humane, who are averſe from maſſacres and oppreſſion—thoſe who regret the loſs of civil liberty—the devout, who tremble at the contempt for religion—the vain, who are mortified at the national degradation—and authors, who ſigh for the freedom of the preſs.—When you conſider this multiplicity of ſymptomatic indications, you will not be ſurprized that ſuch numbers are pronounced in a ſtate of diſeaſe; but our republican phyſicians will ſoon generalize theſe variouſ ſpecies of ariſtocracy under the ſingle deſcription of all who have any thing to loſe, and every one will be deemed plethoric who is not in a conſumption. The people themſelves who obſerve, though they do not reaſon, begin to have an idea that property expoſes the ſafety of the owner and that the legiſlature is leſs inexorable when guilt iſ unproductive, than when the conviction of a criminal comprehends the forfeiture of an eſtate.—A poor tradeſman was lamenting to me yeſterday, that he had neglected an offer of going to live in England; and when I told him I thought he was very fortunate in having done ſo, as he would have been declared an emigrant, he replied, laughing, "Moi emigre qui n'ai pas un ſol:" ["I am emigrant, who am not worth a halfpenny!"]—No, no; they don't make emigrants of thoſe who are worth nothing. And thiſ was not ſaid with any intended irreverence to the Convention, but with the ſimplicity which really conceived the wealth of the emigrants to be the cauſe of the ſeverity exerciſed againſt them.
The commercial and political evils attending a vaſt circulation of aſſignats have been often diſcuſſed, but I have never yet known the matter conſidered in what is, perhaps, its moſt ſerious point of view—I mean its influence on the habits and morals of the people. Wherever I go, eſpecially in large towns like this, the miſchief is evident, and, I fear, irremediable. That oeconomy, which was one of the moſt valuable characteriſtics of the French, is now comparatively diſregarded. The people who receive what they earn in a currency they hold in contempt, are more anxious to ſpend than to ſave; and thoſe who formerly hoarded ſix liards or twelve ſols pieces with great care, would think it folly to hoard an aſſignat, whatever its nominal value. Hence the lower claſs of females diſſipate their wages on uſeleſs finery; men frequent public-houſes, and game for larger ſums than before; little ſhopkeepers, inſtead of amaſſing their profits, become more luxurious in their table: public places are always full; and thoſe who uſed, in a dreſs becoming their ſtation, to occupy the "parquet" or "parterre," now, decorated with paſte, pins, gauze, and galloon, fill the boxes:—and all thiſ deſtructive prodigality is excuſed to others and themſelves "par ce que ce n'eſt que du papier." [Becauſe it is only paper.]—It is vain to perſuade them to oeconomize what they think a few weeks may render valueleſs; and ſuch is the evil of a circulation ſo totally diſcredited, that profuſion aſſumes the merit of precaution, extravagance the plea of neceſſity, and thoſe who were not laviſh by habit become ſo through their eagerneſs to part with their paper. The buried gold and ſilver will again be brought forth, and the merchant and the politician forget the miſchief of the aſſignats. But what can compenſate for the injury done to the people? What is to reſtore their ancient frugality, or baniſh their acquired wants? It is not to be expected that the return of ſpecie will diminiſh the inclination for luxury, or that the human mind can be regulated by the national finance; on the contrary, it iſ rather to be feared, that habits of expence which owe their introduction to the paper will remain when the paper is annihilated; that, though money may become more ſcarce, the propenſities of which it ſupplies the indulgence will not be leſs forcible, and that thoſe who have no other reſources for their accuſtomed gratifications will but too often find one in the ſacrifice of their integrity.—Thus, the corruption of manners will be ſucceeded by the corruption of morals, and the diſhoneſty of one ſex, with the licentiouſneſs of the other, produce conſequences much worſe than any imagined by the abſtracted calculationſ of the politician, or the ſelfiſh ones of the merchant. Age will be often without ſolace, ſickneſs without alleviation, and infancy without ſupport; becauſe ſome would not amaſs for themſelves, nor others for their children, the profits of their labour in a repreſentative ſign of uncertain value.
I do not pretend to aſſert that theſe are the natural effects of a paper circulation—doubtleſs, when ſupported by high credit, and an extenſive commerce, it muſt have many advantages; but this was not the caſe in France—the meaſure was adopted in a moment of revolution, and when the credit of the country, never very conſiderable, was precarious and degraded—It did not flow from the exuberance of commerce, but the artifices of party—it never preſumed, for a moment, on the confidence of the people—its reception was forced, and its emiſſion too profuſe not to be alarming.—I know it may be anſwered, that the aſſignats do not depend upon an imaginary appreciation, but really repreſent a large maſs of national wealth, particularly in the domains of the clergy: yet, perhaps, it is this very circumſtance which has tended moſt to diſcredit them. Had their credit reſted only on the ſolvency of the nation, though they had not been greatly coveted, ſtill they would have been leſſ diſtributed; people would not have apprehended their abolition on a change of government, nor that the ſyſtems adopted by one party might be reverſed by another. Indeed we may add, that an experiment of this kind does not begin auſpiciouſly when grounded on confiſcation and ſeizures, which it is probable more than half the French conſidered as ſacrilege and robbery; nor could they be very anxious to poſſeſs a ſpecies of wealth which they made it a motive of conſcience to hope would never be of any value.—But if the original creation of aſſignats were objectionable, the ſubſequent creations cannot but augment the evil. I have already deſcribed to you the effects viſible at preſent, and thoſe to be apprehended in future—others may reſult from the new inundation, [1200 millionſ—50 millions ſterling.] which it is not poſſible to conjecture; but if the miſchiefs ſhould be real, in proportion as a part of the wealth which this paper is ſaid to repreſent is imaginary, their extent cannot eaſily be exaggerated. Perhaps you will be of thiſ opinion, when you recollect that one of the funds which form the ſecurity of this vaſt ſum is the gratitude of the Flemings for their liberty; and if this reimburſement be to be made according to the ſpecimen the French army have experienced in their retreat, I doubt much of the convention will be diſpoſed to advance any farther claims on it; for, it ſeems, the inhabitants of the Low Countries have been ſo little ſenſible of the benefits beſtowed on them, that even the peaſants ſeize on any weaponſ neareſt hand, and drub and purſue the retrograding armies as they would wild beaſts; and though, as Dumouriez obſerves in one of his diſpatches, our revolution is intended to favour the country people, "c'eſt cependant les gens de campagne qui ſ'arment contre nous, et le tocſin ſonne de toutes parts;" ["It is, however, the country people who take up arms againſt us, and the alarm is ſounded from all quarters."] ſo that the French will, in fact, have created a public debt of ſo ſingular a nature, that every one will avoid as much as poſſible making any demand of the capital.
I have already been more diffuſe than I intended on the ſubject of finance; but I beg you to obſerve, that I do not affect to calculate, or ſpeculate, and that I reaſon only from facts which are daily within my notice, and which, as tending to operate on the morals of the people, are naturally included in the plan I propoſed to myſelf.
I have been here but a few days, and intend returning to-morrow. I left Mrs. D____ very little better, and the diſaffection of Dumouriez, which I juſt now learn, may oblige us to remove to ſome place not on the route to Paris.—Every one looks alert and important, and a phyſiognomiſt may perceive that regret is not the prevailing ſentiment—
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"We now begin to ſpeak in tropes,
"And, by our fears, expreſs our hopes." |
The Jacobins are ſaid to be apprehenſive, which augurs well; for, certainly, next to the happineſs of good people, one deſires the puniſhment of the bad.
If the ſentiments of the people towards their preſent government had been problematical before, the viſible effect of Dumouriez' conduct would afford an ample ſolution of the problem. That indifference about public affairs which the proſpect of an eſtabliſhed deſpotiſm had begun to create has vaniſhed—all is hope and expectation—the doors of thoſe who retail the newſpapers are aſſailed by people too impatient to read them— each with his gazette in his hand liſtens eagerly to the verbal circulation, and then holds a ſecret conference with his neighbour, and calculates how long it may be before Dumouriez can reach Paris. A fortnight ago the name of Dumouriez was not uttered but in a tone of harſhneſs and contempt, and, if ever it excited any thing like complacency, it was when he announced defeats and loſſes. Now he iſ ſpoken of with a ſignificant modulation of voice, it is diſcovered that he has great talents, and his popularity with the army is deſcanted upon with a myſterious air of ſuppreſſed ſatiſfaction.—Thoſe who were extremely apprehenſive leſt part of the General's troops ſhould be driven this way by the ſucceſſes of the enemy, ſeem to talk with perfect compoſure of their taking the ſame route to attack the capital; while others, who would have been unwilling to receive either Dumouriez or hiſ army as peaceful fugitives, will be "nothing loath" to admit them aſ conquerors. From all I can learn, theſe diſpoſitions are very general, and, indeed, the actual tyranny is ſo great, and the perſpective ſo alarming, that any means of deliverance muſt be acceptable. But whatever may be the event, though I cannot be perſonally intereſted, if I thought Dumouriez really propoſed to eſtabliſh a good government, humanity would render one anxious for his ſucceſs; for it is not to be diſguiſed, that France is at this moment (as the General himſelf expreſſed it) under the joint dominion of "imbecilleſ" and "brigands." [Ideots and robbers.]
It is poſſible, that at this moment the whole army is diſaffected, and that the fortified towns are prepared to ſurrender. It is alſo certain, that Brittany is in revolt, and that many other departments are little ſhort of it; yet you will not very eaſily conceive what may have occupied the Convention during part of this important criſiſ—nothing leſs than inventing a dreſs for their Commiſſionerſ! But, as Sterne ſays, "it iſ the ſpirit of the nation;" and I recollect no circumſtance during the whole progreſs of the revolution (however ſerious) that has not been mixed with frivolities of this kind.
I know not what effect this new coſtume may produce on the rebels or the enemy, but I confeſs it appears to me more ludicrous than formidable, eſpecially when a repreſentative happens to be of the ſhape and featureſ of the one we have here. Saladin, Deputy for this department, and an advocate of the town of Amiens, has already inveſted himſelf with thiſ armour of inviolability; "ſtrange figure in ſuch ſtrange habiliments," that one is tempted to forget that Baratraria and the government of Sancho are the creation of fancy. Imagine to yourſelf a ſhort fat man, of ſallow complexion and ſmall eyes, with a ſaſh of white, red, and blue round his waiſt, a black belt with a ſword ſuſpended acroſs hiſ ſhoulders, and a round hat turned up before, with three feathers of the national colours: "even ſuch a man" is our repreſentative, and exerciſeſ a more deſpotic authority than moſt Princes in Europe.—He is accompanied by another Deputy, who was what is called Pere de la Oratoire before the revolution—that is, in a ſtation nearly approaching to that of an under-maſter at our public ſchools; only that the ſeminaries to which theſe were attached being very numerous, thoſe employed in them were little conſidered. They wore the habit, and were ſubject to the ſame reſtrictions, as the Clergy, but were at liberty to quit the profeſſion and marry, if they choſe.—I have been more particular in deſcribing this claſs of men, becauſe they have every where taken an active and ſucceſſful part in perverting and miſleading the people: they are in the clubs, or the municipalities, in the Convention, and in all elective adminiſtrations, and have been in moſt places remarkable for their ſedition and violence.
Several reaſons may be aſſigned for the influence and conduct of men whoſe ſituation and habits, on a firſt view, ſeem to oppoſe both. In the firſt ardour of reform it was determined, that all the ancient modes of education ſhould be aboliſhed; ſmall temporary penſions were allotted to the Profeſſors of Colleges, and their admiſſion to the exerciſe of ſimilar functions in the intended new ſyſtem was left to future deciſion. From this time the diſbanded oratorians, who knew it would be vain to reſiſt popular authority, endeavoured to ſhare in it; or, at leaſt, by becoming zealous partizans of the revolution, to eſtabliſh their claimſ to any offices or emoluments which might be ſubſtituted for thoſe they had been deprived of. They enrolled themſelves with the Jacobins, courted the populace, and, by the talent of pronouncing Roman names with emphaſis, and the ſtudy of rhetorical attitudes, they became important to aſſociates who were ignorant, or neceſſary to thoſe who were deſigning.
The little information generally poſſeſſed by the middle claſſes of life in France, is alſo another cauſe of the comparative importance of thoſe whoſe profeſſions had, in this reſpect, raiſed them ſomething above the common level. People of condition, liberally educated, have unfortunately abandoned public affairs for ſome time; ſo that the incapacity of ſome, and the pride or deſpondency of others, have, in a manner, left the nation to the guidance of pedants, incendiaries, and adventurers. Perhaps alſo the animoſity with which the deſcription of men I allude to purſued every thing attached to the ancient government, may, in ſome degree, have proceeded from a deſire of revenge and retaliation. They were not, it muſt be confeſſed, treated formerly with the regard due to perſons whoſe profeſſion was in itſelf uſeful and reſpectable; and the wounds of vanity are not eaſily cured, nor the vindictiveneſs of little minds eaſily ſatiſfied.
From the conduct and popular influence of theſe Peres de l'Oratoire, ſome truths may be deduced not altogether uſeleſs even to a country not liable to ſuch violent reforms. It affords an example of the danger ariſing from thoſe ſudden and arbitrary innovations, which, by depriving any part of the community of their uſual means of living, and ſubſtituting no other, tempt them to indemnify themſelves by preying, in different ways, on their fellow-citizens.—The daring and ignorant often become depredators of private property; while thoſe who have more talents, and leſs courage, endeavour to ſucceed by the artifices which conciliate public favour. I am not certain whether the latter are not to be moſt dreaded of the two, for thoſe who make a trade of the confidence of the people ſeldom fail to corrupt them—they find it more profitable to flatter their paſſions than to enlighten their underſtandings; and a demagogue of this kind, who obtains an office by exciting one popular inſurrection, will make no ſcruple of maintaining himſelf in it by another. An inferrence may likewiſe be drawn of the great neceſſity of cultivating ſuch a degree of uſeful knowledge in the middle order of ſociety, as may not only prevent their being deceived by intereſted adventurers themſelves, but enable them to inſtruct the people in their true intereſts, and reſcue them from becoming the inſtruments, and finally the victims, of fraud and impoſture.—The inſult and oppreſſion which the nobility frequently experience from thoſe who have been promoted by the revolution, will, I truſt, be a uſeful leſſon in future to the great, who may be inclined to arrogate too much from adventitiouſ diſtinctions, to forget that the earth we tread upon may one day overwhelm us, and that the meaneſt of mankind may do us an injury which it is not in the power even of the moſt exalted to ſhield us from.
The inquiſition begins to grow ſo ſtrict, that I have thought it neceſſary to-day to bury a tranſlation of Burke.—In times of ignorance and barbarity, it was criminal to read the bible, and our Engliſh author is prohibited for a ſimilar reaſon—that is, to conceal from the people the errors of thoſe who direct them: and, indeed, Mr. Burke has written ſome truths, which it is of much more importance for the Convention to conceal, than it could be to the Catholic prieſts to monopolize the divine writings.—As far as it was poſſible, Mr. Burke has ſhown himſelf a prophet: if he has not been completely ſo, it was becauſe he had a benevolent heart, and is the native of a free country. By the one, he was prevented from imagining the cruelties which the French have committed; by the other, the extreme deſpotiſm which they endure.
Before theſe halcyon days of freedom, the ſupremacy of Paris was little felt in the provinces, except in dictating a new faſhion in dreſs, an improvement in the art of cookery, or the invention of a minuet. At preſent our imitations of the capital are ſomething more ſerious; and if our obedience be not quite ſo voluntary, it is much more implicit. Inſtead of receiving faſhions from the Court, we take them now from the dames des balles, [Market-women.] and the municipality; and it muſt be allowed, that the imaginations of our new ſovereigns much exceed thoſe of the old in force and originality.
The mode of pillaging the ſhops, for inſtance, was firſt deviſed by the Pariſian ladies, and has lately been adopted with great ſucceſs in the departments; the viſite domiciliaire, alſo, which I look upon as a moſt ingenious effort of fancy, is an emanation from the commune of Paris, and has had an univerſal run.—But it would be vain to attempt enumerating all the obligations of this kind which we owe to the indulgence of that virtuous city: our laſt importation, however, is of ſo ſingular a nature, that, were we not daily aſſured all the liberty in the world centers in Paris, I ſhould be doubtful as to its tendency. It has lately been decreed, that every houſe in the republic ſhall have fixed on the outſide of the door, in legible characters, the name, age, birth-place, and profeſſion of its inhabitants. Not the pooreſt cottager, nor thoſe who are too old or too young for action, nor even unmarried ladies, are exempt from thus proclaiming the abſtract of their hiſtory to paſſers-by. —The reigning party judge very wiſely, that all thoſe who are not already their enemies may become ſo, and that thoſe who are unable to take a part themſelves may excite others: but, whatever may be the intention of this meaſure, it is impoſſible to conceive any thing which could better ſerve the purpoſes of an arbitrary government; it placeſ every individual in the republic within the immediate reach of informerſ and ſpieſ—it points out thoſe who are of an age to ſerve in the army— thoſe who have ſought refuge in one department from the perſecutions of another—and, in ſhort, whether a victim is purſued by the denunciation of private malice, or political ſuſpicion, it renders eſcape almoſt impracticable.
We have had two domiciliary viſits within the laſt fortnight—one to ſearch for arms, the other under pretext of aſcertaining the number of troops each houſe is capable of lodging. But this was only the pretext, becauſe the municipalities always quarter troops as they think proper, without conſidering whether you have room or not; and the real object of this inquiſition was to obſerve if the inhabitants anſwered to the liſtſ placed on the doors.—Mrs. D____ was ill in bed, but you muſt not imagine ſuch a circumſtance deterred theſe gallant republicans from entering her room with an armed force, to calculate how many ſoldiers might be lodged in the bedchamber of a ſick female! The French, indeed, had never, in my remembrance, any pretenſions to delicacy, or even decency, and they are certainly not improved in theſe reſpects by the revolution.
It is curious in walking the ſtreets, to obſerve the devices of the ſeveral claſſes of ariſtocracy; for it is not to be diſguiſed, that ſince the hope from Dumouriez has vaniſhed, though the diſguſt of the people may be increaſed, their terror is alſo greater than ever, and the departments near Paris have no reſource but ſilent ſubmiſſion. Every one, therefore, obeys the letter of the decrees with the diligence of fear, while they elude the ſpirit of them with all the ingenuity of hatred. The rich, for example, who cannot entirely diveſt themſelves of their remaining hauteur, exhibit a ſullen compliance on a ſmall piece of paper, written in a ſmall hand, and placed at the very extreme of the height allowed by the law. Some fix their bills ſo as to be half covered by a ſhutter; others faſten them only with wafers, ſo that the wind detaching one or two corners, makes it impoſſible to read the reſt.*
* This contrivance became ſo common, that an article was obliged to be added to the decree, importing, that whenever the papers were damaged or effaced by the weather, or deranged by the wind, the inhabitants ſhould replace them, under a penalty.
Many who have courts or paſſages to their houſes, put their names on the half of a gate which they leave open, ſo that the writing is not perceptible but to thoſe who enter. But thoſe who are moſt afraid, or moſt decidedly ariſtocrates, ſubjoin to their regiſters, "All good republicans:" or, "Vive la republique, une et indiviſible." ["The republic, one and indiviſible for ever!"] Some likewiſe, who are in public offices, or ſhopkeepers who are very timid, and afraid of pillage, or are ripe for a counter-revolution, have a ſheet half the ſize of the door, decorated with red caps, tri-coloured ribbons, and flaming ſentences ending in "Death or Liberty!"
If, however, the French government confined itſelf to theſe petty acts of deſpotiſm, I would endeavour to be reconciled to it; but I really begin to have ſerious apprehenſions, not ſo much for our ſafety as our tranquillity, and if I conſidered only myſelf, I ſhould not heſitate to return to England. Mrs. D____ is too ill to travel far at preſent, and her dread of croſſing the ſea makes her leſs diſpoſed to think our ſituation here hazardous or ineligible. Mr. D____, too, who, without being a republican or a partizan of the preſent ſyſtem, has always been a friend to the firſt revolution, is unwilling to believe the Convention ſo bad as there is every reaſon to ſuppoſe it. I therefore let my judgement yield to my friendſhip, and, as I cannot prevail on them to depart, the danger which may attend our remaining is an additional reaſon for my not quitting them.
The national perfidy which has always diſtinguiſhed France among the other countries of Europe, ſeems now not to be more a diplomatic principle, than a rule of domeſtic government. It is ſo extended and generalized, that an individual is as much liable to be deceived and betrayed by confiding in a decree, as a foreign power would be by relying on the faith of a treaty.—An hundred and twenty prieſts, above ſixty years of age, who had not taken the oaths, but who were allowed to remain by the ſame law that baniſhed thoſe who were younger, have been lately arreſted, and are confined together in a houſe which was once a college. The people did not behold this act of cruelty with indifference, but, awed by an armed force, and the preſence of the Commiſſioners of the Convention, they could only follow the prieſts to their priſon with ſilent regret and internal horror. They, however, venture even now to mark their attachment, by taking all opportunities of ſeeing them, and ſupplying them with neceſſaries, which it is not very difficult to do, aſ they are guarded by the Bourgeois, who are generally inclined to favour them. I aſked a woman to-day if ſhe ſtill contrived to have acceſs to the prieſts, and ſhe replied, "Ah, oui, il y a encore de la facilite, par ce que l'on ne trouve pas des gardes ici qui ne ſont pas pour eux."*
* "Yes, yes, we ſtill contive it, becauſe there are no guards to be found here who don't befriend them."
Thus, even the moſt minute and beſt organized tyranny may be eluded; and, indeed, if all the agents of this government acted in the ſpirit of itſ decrees, it would be inſupportable even to a native of Turkey or Japan. But if ſome have ſtill a remnant of humanity left, there are a ſufficient number who execute the laws as unfeelingly as they are conceived.
When theſe poor prieſts were to be removed from their ſeveral houſes, it was found neceſſary to diſlodge the Biſhop of Amiens, who had for ſome time occupied the place fixed on for their reception. The Biſhop had notice given him at twelve o'clock in the day to relinquiſh his lodging before evening; yet the Biſhop of Amiens is a conſtitutional Prelate, and had, before the revolution, the cure of a large pariſh at Paris; nor waſ it without much perſuaſion that he accepted the ſee of Amiens. In the ſevere winter of 1789 he diſpoſed of his plate and library, (the latter of which was ſaid to be one of the beſt private collections in Paris,) to purchaſe bread for the poor. "But Time hath a wallet on his back, wherein he puts alms for oblivion;" and the charities of the Biſhop could not ſhield him from the contempt and inſult which purſue his profeſſion.
I have been much diſtreſſed within the laſt few days on account of my friend Madame de B____. I ſubjoining a tranſlation of a letter I have juſt received from her, as it will convey to you hereafter a tolerable ſpecimen of French liberty.
"Maiſon de Arret, at ____. "I did not write to you, my dear friend, at the time I promiſed, and you will perceive, by the date of this, that I have had too good an excuſe for my negligence. I have been here almoſt a week, and my ſpirits are ſtill ſo much diſordered, that I can with difficulty recollect myſelf enough to relate the circumſtances of our unfortunate ſituation; but as it is poſſible you might become acquainted with them by ſome other means, I rather determined to ſend you a few lines, than ſuffer you to be alarmed by falſe or exaggerated reports. "About two o'clock on Monday morning laſt our ſervants were called up, and, on their opening the door, the houſe was immediately filled with armed men, ſome of whom began ſearching the rooms, while otherſ came to our bedchamber, and informed us we were arreſted by order of the department, and that we muſt riſe and accompany them to priſon. It is not eaſy to deſcribe the effect of ſuch a mandate on people who, having nothing to reproach themſelves with, could not be prepared for it.—As ſoon as we were a little recovered from our firſt terrors, we endeavoured to obey, and begged they would indulge us by retiring a few moments till I had put my clothes on; but neither my embarraſſment, nor the ſcreams of the child—neither decency nor humanity, could prevail. They would not even permit my maid to enter the room; and, amidſt this ſcene of diſorder, I waſ obliged to dreſs myſelf and the terrified infant. When thiſ unpleaſant taſk was finiſhed, a general examination of our houſe and papers took place, and laſted until ſix in the evening: nothing, however, tending in the remoteſt degree to criminate us was found, but we were nevertheleſs conducted to priſon, and God knows how long we are likely to remain here. The denunciation againſt us being ſecret, and not being able to learn either our crime or our accuſers, it is difficult for us to take any meaſures for our enlargement. We cannot defend ourſelves againſt a charge of which we are ignorant, nor combat the validity of a witneſs, who is not only allowed to remain ſecret, but is paid perhaps for hiſ information.* * At this time informers were paid from fifty to an hundred livres for each accuſation. "We moſt probably owe our miſfortune to ſome diſcarded ſervant or perſonal enemy, for I believe you are convinced we have not merited it either by our diſcourſe or our actions: if we had, the charge would have been ſpecific; but we have reaſon to imagine it iſ nothing more than the indeterminate and general charge of being ariſtocrates. I did not ſee my mother or ſiſter all the day we were arreſted, nor till the evening of the next: the one was engaged perhaps with "Roſine and the Angola", who were indiſpoſed, and the other would not forego her uſual card-party. Many of our friendſ likewiſe have forborne to approach us, leſt their apparent intereſt in our fate ſhould involve themſelves; and really the alarm is ſo general, that I can, without much effort, forgive them. "You will be pleaſed to learn, that the greateſt civilities I have received in this unpleaſant ſituation, have been from ſome of your countrymen, who are our fellow-priſoners: they are only poor ſailors, but they are truly kind and attentive, and do us variouſ little ſervices that render us more comfortable than we otherwiſe ſhould be; for we have no ſervants here, having deemed it prudent to leave them to take care of our property. The ſecond night we were here, theſe good creatures, who lodge in the next room, were rather merry, and awoke the child; but as they found, by its cries, that their gaiety had occaſioned me ſome trouble, I have obſerved ever ſince that they walk ſoftly, and avoid making the leaſt noiſe, after the little priſoner is gone to reſt. I believe they are pleaſed with me becauſe I ſpeak their language, and they are ſtill more delighted with your young favourite, who is ſo well amuſed, that he begins to forget the gloom of the place, which at firſt terrified him extremely. "One of our companions is a nonjuring prieſt, who has been impriſoned under circumſtances which make me almoſt aſhamed of my country.—After having eſcaped from a neighbouring department, he procured himſelf a lodging in this town, and for ſome time lived very peaceably, till a woman, who ſuſpected his profeſſion, became extremely importunate with him to confeſs her. The poor man, for ſeveral days, refuſed, telling her, that he did not conſider himſelf as a prieſt, nor wiſhed to be known as ſuch, nor to infringe the law which excluded him. The woman, however, ſtill continued to perſecute him, alledging, that her conſcience was diſtreſſed, and that her peace depended on her being able to confeſs "in the right way." At length he ſuffered himſelf to be prevailed upon—the woman received an hundred livres for informing againſt him, and, perhaps, the prieſt will be condemned to the Guillotine.* * He was executed ſome time after. "I will make no reflection on this act, nor on the ſyſtem of paying informerſ—your heart will already have anticipated all I could ſay. I will only add, that if you determine to remain in France, you muſt obſerve a degree of circumſpection which you may not hitherto have thought neceſſary. Do not depend on your innocence, nor even truſt to common precautionſ—every day furniſhes examples that both are unavailing.—Adieu.—My huſband offers you his reſpects, and your little friend embraces you ſincerely. As ſoon as any change in our favour takes place, I will communicate it to you; but you had better not venture to write—I entruſt this to Louiſon's mother, who iſ going through Amiens, as it would be unſafe to ſend it by the poſt. —Again adieu.—Yours, "Adelaide de ____." Amiens, 1793.