It is obſervable, that we examine leſs ſcrupulouſly the pretenſions of a nation to any particular excellence, than we do thoſe of an individual. The reaſon of this is, probably, that our ſelf-love is as much gratified by admitting the one, as in rejecting the other. When we allow the claims of a whole people, we are flattered with the idea of being above narrow prejudices, and of poſſeſſing an enlarged and liberal mind; but if a ſingle individual arrogate to himſelf any excluſive ſuperiority, our own pride immediately becomes oppoſed to his, and we ſeem but to vindicate our judgement in degrading ſuch preſumption.
I can conceive no other cauſes for our having ſo long acquieſced in the claims of the French to pre-eminent good breeding, in an age when, I believe, no perſon acquainted with both nations can diſcover any thing to juſtify them. If indeed politeneſs conſiſted in the repetition of a certain routine of phraſes, unconnected with the mind or action, I might be obliged to decide againſt our country; but while decency makes a part of good manners, or feeling is preferable to a mechanical jargon, I am inclined to think the Engliſh have a merit more than they have hitherto aſcribed to themſelves. Do not ſuppoſe, however, that I am going to deſcant on the old imputations of "French flattery," and "French inſincerity;" for I am far from concluding that civil behaviour gives one a right to expect kind offices, or that a man is falſe becauſe he pays a compliment, and refuſes a ſervice: I only wiſh to infer, that an impertinence is not leſs an impertinence becauſe it is accompanied by a certain ſet of words, and that a people, who are indelicate to exceſs, cannot properly be denominated "a polite people."
A French man or woman, with no other apology than "permettez moi," ["Give me leave."] will take a book out of your hand, look over any thing you are reading, and aſk you a thouſand queſtions relative to your moſt private concernſ—they will enter your room, even your bedchamber, without knocking, place themſelves between you and the fire, or take hold of your clothes to gueſs what they coſt; and they deem theſe acts of rudeneſs ſufficiently qualified by "Je demande bien de pardons." ["I aſk you a thouſand pardons."]—They are fully convinced that the Engliſh all eat with their knives, and I have often heard this diſcuſſed with much ſelf-complacence by thoſe who uſually ſhared the labours of the repaſt between a fork and their fingers. Our cuſtom alſo of uſing water-glaſſes after dinner is an object of particular cenſure; yet whoever dines at a French table muſt frequently obſerve, that many of the gueſtſ might benefit by ſuch ablutions, and their napkins always teſtify that ſome previous application would be by no means ſuperfluous. Nothing iſ more common than to hear phyſical derangements, diſorders, and their remedies, expatiated upon by the parties concerned amidſt a room full of people, and that with ſo much minuteneſs of deſcription, that a foreigner, without being very faſtidious, is on ſome occaſions apt to feel very unpleaſant ſympathies. There are ſcarcely any of the ceremonies of a lady's toilette more a myſtery to one ſex than the other, and men and their wives, who ſcarcely eat at the ſame table, are in thiſ reſpect groſſly familiar. The converſation in moſt ſocieties partakes of this indecency, and the manners of an Engliſh female are in danger of becoming contaminated, while ſhe is only endeavouring to ſuffer without pain the cuſtoms of thoſe ſhe has been taught to conſider as models of politeneſs.
Whether you examine the French in their houſes or in public, you are every where ſtricken with the ſame want of delicacy, propriety, and cleanlineſs. The ſtreets are moſtly ſo filthy, that it is perilous to approach the walls. The inſides of the churches are often diſguſting, in ſpite of the advertiſements that are placed in them to requeſt the forbearance of phthifical perſons: the ſervice does not prevent thoſe who attend from going to and fro with the ſame irreverence as if the church were empty; and, in the moſt ſolemn part of the maſs, a woman is ſuffered to importune you for a liard, as the price of the chair you ſit on. At the theatres an actor or actreſs frequently coughs and expectorates on the ſtage, in a manner one ſhould think highly unpardonable before one'ſ moſt intimate friends in England, though this habit is very common to all the French. The inns abound with filth of every kind, and though the owners of them are generally civil enough, their notions of what iſ decent are ſo very different from ours, that an Engliſh traveller is not ſoon reconciled to them. In ſhort, it would be impoſſible to enumerate all that in my opinion excludes the French from the character of a well-bred people.—Swift, who ſeems to have been gratified by the contemplation of phyſical impurity, might have done the ſubject juſtice; but I confeſs I am not diſpleaſed to feel that, after my long and frequent reſidences in France, I am ſtill unqualified. So little are theſe people ſuſceptible of delicacy, propriety, and decency, that they do not even uſe the words in the ſenſe we do, nor have they any otherſ expreſſive of the ſame meaning.
But if they be deficient in the external forms of politeneſs, they are infinitely more ſo in that politeneſs which may be called mental. The ſimple and unerring rule of never preferring one's ſelf, is to them more difficult of comprehenſion than the moſt difficult problem in Euclid: in ſmall things as well as great, their own intereſt, their own gratification, is their leading principle; and the cold flexibility which enables them to clothe this ſelfiſh ſyſtem in "fair forms," is what they call politeneſs.
My ideas on this ſubject are not recent, but they occurred to me with additional force on the peruſal of Mad. de B____'s letter. The behaviour of ſome of the pooreſt and leaſt informed claſs of our countrymen forms a ſtriking contraſt with that of the people who arreſted her, and even her own friends: the unaffected attention of the one, and the brutality and neglect of the other, are, perhaps, more juſt examples of Engliſh and French manners than you may have hitherto imagined. I do not, however, pretend to ſay that the latter are all groſs and brutal, but I am myſelf convinced that, generally ſpeaking, they are an unfeeling people.
I beg you to remember, that when I ſpeak of the diſpoſitions and character of the French, my opinions are the reſult of general obſervation, and are applicable to all ranks; but when my remarks are on habits and manners, they deſcribe only thoſe claſſes which are properly called the nation. The higher nobleſſe, and thoſe attached to courts, ſo nearly reſemble each other in all countries, that they are neceſſarily excepted in theſe delineations, which are intended to mark the diſtinguiſhing features of a people at large: for, aſſuredly, when the French aſſert, and their neighbours repeat, that they are a polite nation, it is not meant that thoſe who have important offices or dignified appellations are polite: they found their claims on their ſuperiority as a people, and it is in this light I conſider them. My examples are chiefly drawn, not from the very inferior, nor from the moſt eminent ranks; neither from the retailer of a ſhop, nor the claimant of a tabouret,* or les grandes ou petites entrees; but from the gentry, thoſe of eaſy fortunes, merchants, &c.—in fact, from people of that degree which it would be fair to cite as what may be called genteel ſociety in England.
* The tabouret was a ſtool allowed to the Ladies of the Court particularly diſtinguiſhed by rank or favour, when in preſence of the Royal Family.—"Les entreeſ" gave a familiar acceſs to the King and Queen.
This ceſſation of intercourſe with our country diſpirits me, and, as it will probably continue ſome time, I ſhall amuſe myſelf by noting more particularly the little occurrences which may not reach your public prints, but which tend more than great events to mark both the ſpirit of the government and that of the people.—Perhaps you may be ignorant that the prohibition of the Engliſh mails was not the conſequence of a decree of the Convention, but a ſimple order of its commiſſioners; and I have ſome reaſon to think that even they acted at the inſtigation of an individual who harbours a mean and pitiful diſlike to England and itſ inhabitants.—Yours, &c.
Near ſix weeks ago a decree was paſſed by the Convention, obliging all ſtrangers, who had not purchaſed national property, or who did not exerciſe ſome profeſſion, to give ſecurity to the amount of half their ſuppoſed fortune, and under theſe conditions they were to receive a certificate, allowing them to reſide, and were promiſed the protection of the laws. The adminiſtrators of the departments, who perceive that they become odious by executing the decrees of the Convention, begin to relax much of their diligence, and it is not till long after a law iſ promulgated, and their perſonal fear operates as a ſtimulant, that they ſeriouſly enforce obedience to theſe mandates. This morning, however, we were ſummoned by the Committee of our ſection (or ward) in order to comply with the terms of the decree, and had I been directed only by my own judgement, I ſhould have given the preference to an immediate return to England; but Mrs. D____ is yet ill, and Mr. D____ is diſpoſed to continue. In vain have I quoted "how fickle France was branded 'midſt the nations of the earth for perfidy and breach of public faith;" in vain have I reaſoned upon the injuſtice of a government that firſt allured ſtrangers to remain by inſidious offers of protection, and now ſubjectſ them to conditions which many may find it difficult to ſubſcribe to: Mr. D____ wiſhes to ſee our ſituation in the moſt favourable point of view: he argues upon the moral impoſſibility of our being liable to any inconvenience, and perſiſts in believing that one government may act with treachery towards another, yet, diſtinguiſhing between falſehood and meanneſs, maintain its faith with individualſ—in ſhort, we have concluded a ſort of treaty, by which we are bound, under the forfeiture of a large ſum, to behave peaceably and ſubmit to the laws. The government, in return, empowers us to reſide, and promiſes protection and hoſpitality.
It is to be obſerved, that the ſpirit of this regulation depends upon thoſe it affects producing ſix witneſſes of their "civiſme;"* yet ſo little intereſt do the people take on theſe occaſions, that our witneſſeſ were neighbours we had ſcarcely ever ſeen, and even one was a man who happened to be caſually paſſing by.
* Though the meaning of this word is obvious, we have no one that iſ exactly ſynonymous to it. The Convention intend by it an attachment to their government: but the people do not trouble themſelves about the meaning of wordſ—they meaſure their unwilling obedience by the letter.
Theſe Committees, which form the laſt link of a chain of deſpotiſm, are compoſed of low tradeſmen and day-labourers, with an attorney, or ſome perſon that can read and write, at their head, as Preſident. Prieſts and nobles, with all that are related, or anywiſe attached, to them, are excluded by the law; and it is underſtood that true ſans-culottes only ſhould be admitted.
With all theſe precautions, the indifference and hatred of the people to their government are ſo general, that, perhaps, there are few placeſ where this regulation is executed ſo as to anſwer the purpoſes of the jealous tyranny that conceived it. The members of theſe Committees ſeem to exact no farther compliances than ſuch as are abſolutely neceſſary to the mere form of the proceeding, and to ſecure themſelves from the imputation of diſobedience; and are very little concerned whether the real deſign of the legiſlature be accompliſhed or not. This negligence, or ill-will, which prevails in various inſtances, tempers, in ſome degree, the effect of that reſtleſs ſuſpicion which is the uſual concomitant of an uncertain, but arbitrary, power. The affections or prejudices that ſurround a throne, by enſuring the ſafety of the Monarch, engage him to clemency, and the laws of a mild government are, for the moſt part, enforced with exactneſs; but a new and precarious authority, which neither impoſes on the underſtanding nor intereſts the heart, which is ſupported only by a palpable and unadorned tyranny, is in its nature ſevere, and it becomes the common cauſe of the people to counteract the meaſures of a deſpotiſm which they are unable to reſiſt.—This (as I have before had occaſion to obſerve) renders the condition of the French leſſ inſupportable, but it is by no means ſufficient to baniſh the fears of a ſtranger who has been accuſtomed to look for ſecurity, not from a relaxation or diſregard of the laws, but from their efficacy; not from the characters of thoſe who execute them, but from the rectitude with which they are formed.—What would you think in England, if you were obliged to contemplate with dread the three branches of your legiſlature, and depend for the protection of your perſon and property on ſoldiers and conſtables? Yet ſuch is nearly the ſtate we are in; and indeed a ſyſtem of injuſtice and barbariſm gains ground ſo faſt, that almoſt any apprehenſion is juſtified.—The Tribunal Revolutionnaire has already condemned a ſervant maid for her political opinions; and one of the Judges of this tribunal lately introduced a man to the Jacobins, with high panegyrics, becauſe, as he alledged, he had greatly contributed to the condemnation of a criminal. The ſame Judge likewiſe apologized for having as yet ſent but a ſmall number to the Guillotine, and promiſes, that, on the firſt appearance of a "Briſſotin" before him, he will ſhow him no mercy.
When the miniſter of public juſtice thus avows himſelf the agent of a party, a government, however recent its formation, muſt be far advanced in depravity; and the corruption of thoſe who are the interpreters of the law has uſually been the laſt effort of expiring power.
My friends, Mons. And Mad. de B____, are releaſed from their confinement; not as you might expect, by proving their innocence, but by the effortſ of an individual, who had more weight than their accuſer: and, far from obtaining ſatiſfaction for the injury they have received, they are obliged to accept as a favour the liberty they were deprived of by malice and injuſtice. They will, moſt probably, never be acquainted with the nature of the charges brought againſt them; and their accuſer will eſcape with impunity, and, perhaps, meet with reward.
All the French papers are filled with deſcriptions of the enthuſiaſm with which the young men "ſtart to armſ" [Offian.] at the voice of their country; yet it is very certain, that this enthuſiaſm is of ſo ſubtle and aerial a form as to be perceivable only to thoſe who are intereſted in diſcovering it. In ſome places theſe enthuſiaſtic warriors continue to hide themſelveſ—from others they are eſcorted to the place of their deſtination by nearly an equal number of dragoons; and no one, I believe, who can procure money to pay a ſubſtitute, is diſpoſed to go himſelf. This is ſufficiently proved by the ſums demanded by thoſe who engage aſ ſubſtitutes: laſt year from three to five hundred livres was given; at preſent no one will take leſs than eight hundred or a thouſand, beſideſ being furniſhed with clothes, &c. The only real volunteers are the ſonſ of ariſtocrates, and the relations of emigrants, who, ſacrificing their principles to their fears, hope, by enliſting in the army, to protect their eſtates and families: thoſe likewiſe who have lucrative employments, and are afraid of loſing them, affect great zeal, and expect to purchaſe impunity for civil peculation at home, by the military ſervices of their children abroad.
This, I aſſure you, is the real ſtate of that enthuſiaſm which occaſionſ ſuch an expence of eloquence to our gazette-writers; but theſe fallaciouſ accounts are not like the ephemeral deceits of your party prints in England, the effect of which is deſtroyed in a few hours by an oppoſite aſſertion. None here are bold enough to contradict what their ſovereignſ would have believed; and a town or diſtrict, driven almoſt to revolt by the preſent ſyſtem of recruiting, conſents very willingly to be deſcribed as marching to the frontiers with martial ardour, and burning to combat les eſclaves des tyranſ! By theſe artifices, one department is miſled with regard to the diſpoſitions of another, and if they do not excite to emulation, they, at leaſt, repreſs by fear; and, probably, many are reduced to ſubmiſſion, who would reſiſt, were they not doubtful of the ſupport and union of their neighbours. Every poſſible precaution iſ taken to prevent any connections between the different departmentſ— people who are not known cannot obtain paſſports without the recommendation of two houſekeeperſ—you muſt give an account of the buſineſs you go upon, of the carriage you mean to travel in, whether it has two wheels or four: all of which muſt be ſpecified in your paſſport: and you cannot ſend your baggage from one town to another without the riſk of having it ſearched. All theſe things are ſo diſguſting and troubleſome, that I begin to be quite of a different opinion from Brutus, and ſhould certainly prefer being a ſlave among a free people, than thuſ be tormented with the recollection that I am a native of England in a land of ſlavery. Whatever liberty the French might have acquired by their firſt revolution, it is now much like Sir John Cutler's worſted ſtockings, ſo torn, and worn, and diſguiſed by patchings and mendings, that the original texture is not diſcoverable.—Yours, &c.
We have been three days without receiving newſpapers; but we learn from the reports of the courier, that the Briſſotins are overthrown, that many of them have been arreſted, and ſeveral eſcaped to raiſe adherents in the departments. I, however, doubt much if their ſucceſs will be very general: the people have little preference between Briſſot and Marat, Condorcet and Robeſpierre, and are not greatly ſolicitous about the nameſ or even principles of thoſe who govern them—they are not yet accuſtomed to take that lively intereſt in public events which is the effect of a popular conſtitution. In England every thing is a ſubject of debate and conteſt, but here they wait in ſilence the reſult of any political meaſure or party diſpute; and, without entering into the merits of the cauſe, adopt whatever is ſucceſſful. While the King was yet alive, the news of Paris was eagerly ſought after, and every diſorder of the metropolis created much alarm: but one would almoſt ſuppoſe that even curioſity had ceaſed at his death, for I have obſerved no ſubſequent event (except the defection of Dumouriez) make any very ſeriouſ impreſſion. We hear, therefore, with great compoſure, the preſent triumph of the more violent republicans, and ſuffer without impatience this interregnum of news, which is to continue until the Convention ſhall have determined in what manner the intelligence of their proceedingſ ſhall be related to the departments.
The great ſolicitude of the people is now rather about their phyſical exiſtence than their political one—proviſions are become enormouſly dear, and bread very ſcarce: our ſervants often wait two hours at the baker's, and then return without bread for breakfaſt. I hope, however, the ſcarcity is rather artificial than real. It is generally ſuppoſed to be occaſioned by the unwillingneſs of the farmers to ſell their corn for paper. Some meaſures have been adopted with an intention of remedying this evil, though the origin of it is beyond the reach of decree. It originates in that diſtruſt of government which reconciles one part of the community to ſtarving the other, under the idea of ſelf-preſervation. While every individual perſiſts in eſtabliſhing it as a maxim, that any thing is better than aſſignats, we muſt expect that all things will be difficult to procure, and will, of courſe, bear a high price. I fear, all the empyriciſm of the legiſlature cannot produce a noſtrum for thiſ want of faith. Dragoons and penal laws only "linger, and linger it out;" the diſeaſe is incurable.
My friends, Mons. and Mad. de B____, by way of conſolation for their impriſonment, now find themſelves on the liſt of emigrants, though they have never been a ſingle day abſent from their own province, or from places of reſidence where they are well known. But that they may not murmur at this injuſtice, the municipality have accompanied their nameſ with thoſe of others who have not even been abſent from the town, and of one gentleman in particular, who I believe may have been ſeen on the ramparts every day for theſe ſeven years.—This may appear to you only very abſurd, and you may imagine the conſequences eaſily obviated; yet theſe miſtakes are the effect of private malice, and ſubject the perſonſ affected by them to an infinity of expence and trouble. They are obliged, in order to avert the confiſcation of their property, to appear, in every part of the republic where they have poſſeſſions, with atteſtations of their conſtant reſidence in France, and perhaps ſuffer a thouſand mortifications from the official ignorance and brutality of the perſons to whom they apply. No remedy lies againſt the authors of theſe vexations, and the ſufferer who is prudent fears even to complain.
I have, in a former letter, noticed the great number of beggars that ſwarm at Arras: they are not leſs numerous at Amiens, though of a different deſcription—they are neither ſo diſguſting, nor ſo wretched, but are much more importunate and inſolent—they plead neither ſickneſſ nor infirmity, and are, for the moſt part, able and healthy. How ſo many people ſhould beg by profeſſion in a large manufacturing town, it iſ difficult to conceive; but, whatever may be the cauſe, I am tempted to believe the effect has ſome influence on the manners of the inhabitantſ of Amiens. I have ſeen no town in France ſo remarkable for a rude and unfeeling behaviour, and it is not fanciful to conjecture that the multitude of poor may tend in part to occaſion it. The conſtant view of a ſort of miſery that excites little compaſſion, of an intruſive neceſſity which one is more deſirous to repulſe than to relieve, cannot but render the heart callous, and the manners harſh. The avarice of commerce, which is here unaccompanied by its liberality, is glad to confound real diſtreſs with voluntary and idle indigence, till, in time, an abſence of feeling becomes part of the character; and the conſtant habit of petulant refuſals, or of acceding more from fatigue than benevolence, has perhaps a ſimilar effect on the voice, geſture, and external.
This place has been ſo often viſited by thoſe who deſcribe better than myſelf, that I have thought it unneceſſary to mention public buildings, or any thing equally obvious to the traveller or the reſident. The beauty and elegance of the cathedral have been celebrated for ages, and I only remind you of it to indulge my national vanity in the reflection that one of the moſt ſplendid monuments of Gothic architecture in France is the work of our Engliſh anceſtors. The edifice is in perfect preſervation, and the hand of power has not yet ventured to appropriate the plate or ornaments; but this forbearance will moſt probably give way to temptation and impunity. The Convention will reſpect ancient prejudices no longer than they ſuppoſe the people have courage to defend them, and the latter ſeem ſo entirely ſubdued, that, however they may murmur, I do not think any ſerious reſiſtance is to be expected from them, even in behalf of the relics of St. Firmin. [St. Firmin, the patron of Amiens, where he is, in many of the ſtreets, repreſented with his head in his hand.]—The buſt of Henry the Fourth, which was a preſent from the Monarch himſelf, is baniſhed the town-houſe, where it was formerly placed, though, I hope, ſome royaliſt has taken poſſeſſion of it, and depoſited it in ſafety till better times. This once popular Prince iſ now aſſociated with Nero and Caligula, and it is "leze nation" to ſpeak of him to a thorough republican.—I know not if the French had before the revolution reached the acme of perfection, but they have certainly been retrograding very faſt ſince. Every thing that uſed to create fondneſſ and veneration is deſpiſed, and things are eſteemed only in proportion aſ they are worthleſs. Perhaps the buſt of Robeſpierre may one day replace that of Henry the Fourth, and, to ſpeak in the ſtyle of an eaſtern epiſtle, "what can I ſay more?"
Should you ever travel this way with Gray in your hand, you will look for the Urſuline convent, and regret the paintings he mentions: but you may recollect, for your conſolation, that they are merely pretty, and remarkable only for being the work of one of the nuns.—Gray, who ſeemſ to have had that enthuſiaſtic reſpect for religious orders common to young minds, admired them on this account; and numbers of Engliſh travellers have, I dare ſay, prepoſſeſſed by ſuch an authority, experienced the ſame diſappointment I myſelf felt on viſiting the Urſuline church. Many of the chapels belonging to theſe communities were very ſhowy and much decorated with gilding and ſculpture: ſome of them are ſold for a mere trifle, but the greateſt part are filled with corn and forage, and on the door is inſcribed "Magazin des armees." The change is almoſt incredible to thoſe who remember, that leſs than four years ago the Catholic religion was ſtrictly practiſed, and the violation of theſe ſanctuaries deemed ſacrilegious. Our great hiſtorian [Gibbon] might well ſay "the influence of ſuperſtition is fluctuating and precarious;" though, in the preſent inſtance, it has rather been reſtrained than ſubdued; and the people, who have not been convinced, but intimidated, ſecretly lament theſe innovations, and perhaps reproach themſelves conſcientiouſly with their ſubmiſſion.—Yours.
Mercier, in his Tableau de Paris, notices, on ſeveral occaſions, the little public ſpirit exiſting among his countrymen—it is alſo obſervable, that many of the laws and cuſtoms preſume on this deficiency, and the name of republicans has by no means altered that cautiouſ diſpoſition which makes the French conſider either miſfortunes or benefits only as their perſonal intereſt is affected by them.—I am juſt returned from a viſit to Abbeville, where we were much alarmed on Sunday by a fire at the Paraclete convent. The tocſin rang great part of the day, and the principal ſtreet of the town was in danger of being deſtroyed. In ſuch circumſtances, you will ſuppoſe, that people of all ranks eagerly crouded to offer their ſervice, and endeavour to ſtop the progreſs of ſo terrible a calamity. By no meanſ—the gates of the town were ſhut to prevent its entire evacuation, many hid themſelves in garrets and cellars, and dragoons patrolled the ſtreets, and even entered the houſes, to force the inhabitants to aſſiſt in procuring water; while the conſternation, uſually the effect of ſuch accidents, was only owing to the fear of being obliged to aid the ſufferers.—This employment of military coercion for what humanity alone ſhould dictate, is not aſcribeable to the principles of the preſent government—it was the ſame before the revolution, (except that the agents of the ancient ſyſtem were not ſo brutal and deſpotic as the ſoldiers of the republic,) and compulſion was always deemed neceſſary where there was no ſtimulant but the general intereſt.
In England, at any alarm of the fort, all diſtinction of ranks iſ forgotten, and every one is ſolicitous to contribute as much as he iſ able to the ſafety of his fellow-citizens; and, ſo far from an armed force being requiſite to procure aſſiſtance, the greateſt difficulty iſ to repreſs the too-officious zeal of the croud.—I do not pretend to account for this national diſparity, but I fear what a French gentleman once ſaid to me of the Pariſians is applicable to the general character, "Ils ſont tous egoiſtes," ["They are all ſelfiſh!"] and they would not do a benevolent action at the riſk of ſoiling a coat or tearing a ruffle.
Diſtruſt of the aſſignats, and ſcarcity of bread, have occaſioned a law to oblige the farmers, in every part of the republic, to ſell their corn at a certain price, infinitely lower than what they have exacted for ſome months paſt. The conſequence of this was, that, on the ſucceeding market days, no corn came to market, and detachments of dragoons are obliged to ſcour the country to preſerve us from a famine. If it did not convey an idea both of the deſpotiſm and want with which the nation is afflicted, one ſhould be amuſed by the ludicrous figures of the farmers, who enter the town preceded by ſoldiers, and repoſing with doleful viſages on their ſacks of wheat. Sometimes you ſee a couple of dragoons leading in triumph an old woman and an aſs, who follow with lingering ſteps their military conductors; and the very aſs ſeems to ſympathize with hiſ miſtreſs on the diſaſter of ſelling her corn at a reduced price, and for paper, when ſhe had hoped to hoard it till a counter-revolution ſhould bring back gold and ſilver.
The farmers are now, perhaps, the greateſt ariſtocrates in the country; but as both their patriotiſm and their ariſtocracy have been a mere calculation of intereſt, the ſeverity exerciſed on their avarice is not much to be regretted. The original fault is, however, in an uſurped government, which inſpires no confidence, and which, to ſupply an adminiſtration laviſh beyond all example, has been obliged to iſſue ſuch an immenſe quantity of paper as nearly deſtroys its credit. In political, as in moral, vices, the firſt always neceſſitates a ſecond, and theſe muſt ſtill be ſuſtained by others; until, at length, the very ſenſe of right and wrong becomes impaired, and the latter is not only preferred from habit, but from choice.
Thus the arbitrary emiſſion of paper has been neceſſarily followed by ſtill more arbitrary decrees to ſupport it. For inſtance—the people have been obliged to ſell their corn at a ſtated price, which has again been the ſource of various and general vexations. The farmers, irritated by this meaſure, concealed their grain, or ſold it privately, rather than bring it to market.—Hence, ſome were ſupplied with bread, and otherſ abſolutely in want of it. This was remedied by the interference of the military, and a general ſearch for corn has taken place in all houſeſ without exception, in order to diſcover if any was ſecreted; even our bedchambers were examined on this occaſion: but we begin to be ſo accuſtomed to the viſite domiciliaire, that we find ourſelves ſuddenly ſurrounded by the Garde Nationale, without being greatly alarmed.—I know not how your Engliſh patriots, who are ſo enamoured of French liberty, yet thunder with the whole force of their eloquence againſt the ingreſſ of an exciſeman to a tobacco warehouſe, would reconcile this domeſtic inquiſition; for the municipalities here violate your tranquillity in this manner under any pretext they chooſe, and that too with an armed cortege ſufficient to undertake the ſiege of your houſe in form.
About fifteen departments are in inſurrection, oſtenſibly in behalf of the expelled Deputies; but I believe I am authorized in ſaying, it is by no means the deſire of the people at large to interfere. All who are capable of reflection conſider the diſpute merely as a family quarrel, and are not partial enough to either party to adopt its cauſe. The tropps they have already raiſed have been collected by the perſonal intereſt of the members who contrived to eſcape, or by an attempt of a few of the royaliſts to make one half of the faction ſubſervient to the deſtruction of the other. If you judge of the principles of the nation by the ſucceſs of the Foederaliſts,* and the ſuperiority of the Convention, you will be extremely deceived; for it is demonſtrable, that neither the moſt zealous partizans of the ancient ſyſtem, nor thoſe of the aboliſhed conſtitution, have taken any ſhare in the diſpute; and the departments moſt notoriouſly ariſtocratic have all ſignified their adherence to the proceedings of the Aſſembly.
* On the 31ſt of May and 2d of June, the Convention, who had been for ſome months ſtruggling with the Jacobins and the municipality of Paris, was ſurrounded by an armed force: the moſt moderate of the Deputies (thoſe diſtinguiſhed by the name of Briſſotins,) were either menaced into a compliance with the meaſures of the oppoſite faction, or arreſted; others took flight, and, by repreſenting the violence and ſlavery in which the majority of the Convention waſ holden, excited ſome of the departments to take arms in their favour.—This conteſt, during its ſhort exiſtence, was called the war of the Foederaliſts.—The reſult is well known.
Thoſe who would gladly take an active part in endeavouring to eſtabliſh a good government, are averſe from riſking their lives and properties in the cauſe of Briſſot or Condorcet.—At Amiens, where almoſt every individual is an ariſtocrate, the fugitive Deputies could not procure the leaſt encouragement, but the town would have received Dumouriez, and proclaimed the King without oppoſition. But this ſchiſm in the legiſlature is conſidered as a mere conteſt of banditti, about the diviſion of ſpoil, not calculated to excite an intereſt in thoſe they have plundered and oppreſſed.
The royaliſts who have been ſo miſtaken as to make any effort on thiſ occaſion, will, I fear, fall a ſacrifice, having acted for the moſt part without union or concert; and their junction with the Deputies renderſ them ſuſpicious, if not odious, to their own party. The extreme difficulty, likewiſe, of communication between the departments, and the ſtrict watch obſerved over all travellers, form another obſtacle to the ſucceſs of any attempt at preſent; and, on the whole, the only hope of deliverance for the French ſeems to reſt upon the allied armies and the inſurgents of La Vendee.
When I ſay this, I do not aſſert from prejudices, which often deceive, nor from conjecture, that is always fallible; but from unexceptionable information—from an intercourſe with various ranks of people, and a minute obſervance of all. I have ſcarcely met with a ſingle perſon who does not relate the progreſs of the inſurgents in La Vendee with an air of ſatiſfaction, or who does not appear to expect with impatience the ſurrender of Conde: and even their language, perhaps unconſciouſly, betrays their ſentiments, for I remark, they do not, when they ſpeak of any victory gained by the arms of the republic, ſay, Nous, or Notre armee, but, Les Francais, and, Les troupes de la republique;—and that always in a tone as though they were ſpeaking of an enemy.—Adieu.
Our modern travellers are moſtly either ſentimental or philoſophical, or courtly or political; and I do not remember to have read any who deſcribe the manner of living among the gentry and middle ranks of life in France. I will, therefore, relieve your attention for a moment from our actual diſtreſſes, and give you the picture of a day as uſually paſſed by thoſe who have eaſy fortunes and no particular employment.—The ſocial aſſemblage of a whole family in the morning, as in England, is not very common, for the French do not generally breakfaſt: when they do, it iſ without form, and on fruit, bread, wine, and water, or ſometimes coffee; but tea is ſcarcely ever uſed, except by the ſick. The morning iſ therefore paſſed with little intercourſe, and in extreme diſhabille. The men loiter, fiddle, work tapeſtry, and ſometimes read, in a robe de chambre, or a jacket and "pantalons;" [Trowſers.] while the ladies, equipped only in a ſhort manteau and petticoat, viſit their birds, knit, or, more frequently, idle away the forenoon without doing any thing. It is not cuſtomary to walk or make viſits before dinner, and if by chance any one calls, he is received in the bedchamber. At half paſt one or two they dine, but without altering the negligence of their apparel, and the buſineſs of the toilette does not begin till immediately after the repaſt. About four, viſits of ceremony begin, and may be made till ſix or ſeven according to the ſeaſon; but thoſe who intend paſſing an evening at any particular houſe, go before ſix, and the card parties generally finiſh between eight and nine. People then adjourn to their ſupper engagements, which are more common than thoſe for dinner, and are, for the moſt part, in different places, and conſidered as a ſeparate thing from the earlier amuſements of the evening. They keep better hours than the Engliſh, moſt families being in bed by half paſt ten. The theatreſ are alſo regulated by theſe ſober habits, and the dramatic repreſentations are uſually over by nine.
A day paſſed in this manner is, as you may imagine, ſuſceptible of much ennui, and the French are accordingly more ſubject to it than to any other complaint, and hold it in greateſt dread than either ſickneſs or miſfortune. They have no conception how one can remain two hours alone without being ennuye a la mort; and but few, comparatively ſpeaking, read for amuſement: you may enter ten houſes without ſeeing a book; and it is not to be wondered at that people, who make a point of ſtaying at home all the morning, yet do not read, are embarraſſed with the diſpoſition of ſo much time.—It is this that occaſions ſuch a general fondneſs for domeſtic animals, and ſo many barbarous muſicians, and male-workers of tapeſtry and tambour.
I cannot but attribute this littleneſs and diſlike of morning exerciſe to the quantity of animal food the French eat at night, and to going to reſt immediately after it, in conſequence of which their activity is checked by indigeſtions, and they feel heavy and uncomfortable for half the ſucceeding day.—The French pique themſelves on being a gayer nation than the Engliſh; but they certainly muſt exclude their mornings from the account, for the forlorn and neglected figure of a Frenchman till dinner is a very antidote to chearfulneſs, eſpecially if contraſted with the animation of our countrymen, whoſe forenoon is paſſed in riding or walking, and who make themſelves at leaſt decent before they appear even in their own families.
The great difficulty the French have in finding amuſement makes them averſe from long reſidences in the country, and it is very uncommon for thoſe who can afford only one houſe not to prefer a town; but thoſe whoſe fortune will admit of it, live about three months of the year in the country, and the reſt in the neighbouring town. This, indeed, as they manage it, is no very conſiderable expence, for the ſame furniture often ſerves for both habitations, and the one they quit being left empty, requires no perſon to take charge of it, eſpecially as houſe-breaking iſ very uncommon in France; at leaſt it was ſo before the revolution, when the police was more ſtrict, and the laws againſt robbers were more ſevere.
You will ſay, I often deſcribe the habits and manners of a nation ſo frequently viſited, as though I were writing from Kamſchatka or Japan; yet it is certain, as I have remarked above, that thoſe who are merely itinerant have not opportunities of obſerving the modes of familiar life ſo well as one who is ſtationary, and travellers are in general too much occupied by more important obſervations to enter into the minute and trifling details which are the ſubject of my communications to you. But if your attention be ſometimes fatigued by occurrences or relations too well known, or of too little conſequence to be intereſting, I claim ſome merit in never having once deſcribed the proportions of a building, nor given you the hiſtory of a town; and I might have contrived as well to tax your patience by an erudite deſcription, as a ſuperficial reflection, or a female remark. The truth is, my pen is generally guided by circumſtances as they riſe, and my ideas have ſeldom any deeper origin than the ſcene before me. I have no books here, and I am apt to think if profeſſed travellers were deprived of this reſource, many learned etymologies and much profound compilation would be loſt to the modern reader.
The inſurgents of La Vendee continue to have frequent and decided ſucceſſes, but the inſurrections in the other departments languiſh. The avowed object of liberating the Convention is not calculated to draw adherents, and if any better purpoſe be intended, while a faction are the promoters of it, it will be regarded with too much ſuſpicion to procure any effectual movement. Yet, however partial and unconnected this revolt may be, it is an object of great jealouſy and inquietude: all the addreſſes or petitions brought in favour of it are received with diſapprobation, and ſuppreſſed in the official bulletin of the legiſlature; but thoſe which expreſs contrary ſentiments are ordered to be inſerted with the uſual terms of "applaudi, adopte, et mention honorable."—In this manner the army and the people, who derive their intelligence from theſe accounts (which are paſted up in the ſtreets,) are kept in ignorance of the real ſtate of diſtant provinces, and, what is ſtill more important for the Convention, the communication of examples, which they know ſo many are diſpoſed to imitate, is retarded.
The people here are nearly in the ſame ſtate they have been in for ſome time—murmuring in ſecret, and ſubmitting in public; expecting every thing from that energy in others which they have not themſelves, and accumulating the diſcontents they are obliged to ſuppreſs. The Convention call them the brave republicans of Amiens; but if their bravery were as unequivocal as their ariſtocracy, they would ſoon be at the gates of Paris. Even the firſt levies are not all departed for the frontiers, and ſome who were prevailed on to go are already returned.— All the neceſſaries of life are augmenting in price—the people complain, pillage the ſhops and the markets one day, and want the next. Many of the departments have oppoſed the recruiting much more decidedly than they have ventured to do here; and it was not without inſpiring terror by numerous arreſts, that the levies which were immediately neceſſary were procured.—France offers no proſpect but that of ſcarcity, diſorder, and oppreſſion; and my friends begin to perceive that we have committed an imprudence in remaining ſo long. No paſſports can now be obtained, and we muſt, as well as ſeveral very reſpectable families ſtill here, abide the event of the war.
Some weeks have elapſed ſince I had letters from England, and thoſe we receive from the interior come open, or ſealed with the ſeal of the diſtrict. This is not peculiar to our letters, as being foreigners, but the ſame unceremonious inſpection is practiſed with the correſpondence of the French themſelves. Thus, in this land of liberty, all epiſtolary intercourſe has ceaſed, except for mere matters of buſineſs; and though in the declaration of the rights of man it be aſſerted, that every one iſ entitled to write or print his thoughts, yet it is certain no perſon can entruſt a letter to the poſt, but at the riſk of having it opened; nor could Mr. Thomas Paine himſelf venture to expreſs the ſlighteſt diſapprobation of the meaſures of government, without hazarding hiſ freedom, and, in the end, perhaps, his life. Even theſe papers, which I reſerve only for your amuſement, which contain only the opinions of an individual, and which never have been communicated, I am obliged to conceal with the utmoſt circumſpection; for ſhould they happen to fall into the hands of our domiciliary inquiſitors, I ſhould not, like your Engliſh liberties, eſcape with the gentle correction of impriſonment, or the pillory.—A man, who had murdered his wife, was lately condemned to twenty years impriſonment only; but people are guillotined every day for a ſimple diſcourſe, or an inadvertent expreſſion.—Yours.
It will be ſome conſolation to the French, if, from the wreck of their civil liberty, they be able to preſerve the mode of adminiſtering juſtice as eſtabliſhed by the conſtitution of 1789. Were I not warranted by the beſt information, I ſhould not venture an opinion on the ſubject without much diffidence, but chance has afforded me opportunities that do not often occur to a ſtranger, and the new code appears to me, in many parts, ſingularly excellent, both as to principle and practice.—Juſtice is here gratuitouſ—thoſe who adminiſter it are elected by the people—they depend only on their ſalaries, and have no fees whatever. Reaſonable allowances are made to witneſſes both for time and expences at the public charge—a loſs is not doubled by the coſts of a proſecution to recover it. In caſes of robbery, where property found is detained for the ſake of proof, it does not become the prey of official rapacity, but an abſolute reſtitution takes place.—The legiſlature has, in many reſpects, copied the laws of England, but it has ſimplified the forms, and rectified thoſe abuſes which make our proceedings in ſome caſes almoſt aſ formidable to the proſecutor as to the culprit. Having to compoſe an entire new ſyſtem, and being unſhackled by profeſſional reverence for precedents, they were at liberty to benefit by example, to reject thoſe errors which have been long ſanctioned by their antiquity, and are ſtill permitted to exiſt, through our dread of innovation. The French, however, made an attempt to improve on the trial by jury, which I think only evinces that the inſtitution as adopted in England is not to be excelled. The deciſion is here given by ballot—unanimity is not required—and three white balls are ſufficient to acquit the priſoner. This deviation from our mode ſeems to give the rich an advantage over the poor. I fear, that, in the number of twelve men taken from any country, it may ſometimes happen that three may be found corruptible: now the wealthy delinquent can avail himſelf of this human failing; but, "through tatter'd robes ſmall vices do appear," and the indigent ſinner has leſſ chance of eſcaping than another.
It is to be ſuppoſed, that, at this time, the vigour of the criminal lawſ is much relaxed, and their execution difficult. The army offers refuge and impunity to guilt of all kinds, and the magiſtrates themſelves would be apprehenſive of purſuing an offender who was protected by the mob, or, which is the ſame thing, by the Jacobins.
The groundwork of much of the French civil juriſprudence is arbitration, particularly in thoſe trifling proceſſes which originate in a ſpirit of litigation; and it is not eaſy for a man here, however well diſpoſed, to ſpend twenty pounds in a conteſt about as many pence, or to ruin himſelf in order to ſecure the poſſeſſion of half an acre of land. In general, redreſs is eaſily obtained without unneceſſary procraſtination, and with little or no coſt. Perhaps moſt legal codes may be ſimple and efficacious at their firſt inſtitution, and the circumſtance of their being encumbered with forms which render them complex and expenſive, may be the natural conſequence of length of time and change of manners. Littleton might require no commentary in the reign of Henry II. and the myſterious fictions that conſtitute the ſcience of modern judicature were perhaps familiar, and even neceſſary, to our anceſtors. It is to be regretted that we cannot adapt our laws to the age in which we live, and aſſimilate them to our cuſtoms; but the tendency of our nature to extremes perpetuates evils, and makes both the wiſe and the timid enemieſ to reform. We fear, like John Calvin, to tear the habit while we are ſtripping off the ſuperfluous decoration; and the example of this country will probably long act as a diſcouragement to all change, either judicial or political. The very name of France will repreſs the deſire of innovation—we ſhall cling to abuſes as though they were our ſupport, and every attempt to remedy them will become an objection of ſuſpicion and terror.—Such are the advantages which mankind will derive from the French revolution.
The Jacobin conſtitution is now finiſhed, and, as far as I am able to judge, it is what might be expected from ſuch an origin: calculated to flatter the people with an imaginary ſovereignty—to place the whole power of election in the claſs moſt eaſily miſled—to exclude from the repreſentation thoſe who have a natural intereſt in the welfare of the country, and to eſtabliſh the reign of anarchy and intrigue.—Yet, however averſe the greater number of the French may be from ſuch a conſtitution, no town or diſtrict has dared to reject it; and I remark, that amongſt thoſe who have been foremoſt in offering their acceptation, are many of the places moſt notoriouſly ariſtocratic. I have enquired of ſome of the inhabitants of theſe very zealous towns on what principle they acted ſo much in oppoſition to their known ſentiments: the reply iſ always, that they fear the vengeance of the Jacobins, and that they are awed by military force. This reaſoning is, of courſe, unanſwerable; and we learn, from the debates of the Convention, that the people have received the new conſtitution "avec la plus vive reconnoiſſance," ["With the moſt lively gratitude."] and that they have all ſworn to die in its defence.—Yours, &c.
The return of this day cannot but ſuggeſt very melancholy reflections to all who are witneſſes of the changes which a ſingle year has produced. In twelve months only the government of France has been overturned, her commerce deſtroyed, the country depopulated to raiſe armies, and the people deprived of bread to ſupport them. A deſpotiſm more abſolute than that of Turkey is eſtabliſhed, the manners of the nation are corrupted, and its moral character is diſgraced in the eyes of all Europe. A barbarous rage has laid waſte the faireſt monuments of art—whatever could embelliſh ſociety, or contribute to ſoften exiſtence, haſ diſappeared under the reign of theſe modern Gothſ—even the neceſſarieſ of life are becoming rare and inadequate to the conſumption—the rich are plundered and perſecuted, yet the poor are in want—the national credit is in the laſt ſtage of debaſement, yet an immenſe debt is created, and daily accumulating; and apprehenſion, diſtruſt, and miſery, are almoſt univerſal.—All this is the work of a ſet of adventurers who are now divided among themſelveſ—who are accuſing each other of thoſe crimeſ which the world imputes to them all—and who, conſcious they can no longer deceive the nation, now govern with the fear and ſuſpicion of tyrants. Every thing is ſacrificed to the army and Paris, and the people are robbed of their ſubſiſtence to ſupply an iniquitous metropolis, and a military force that awes and oppreſſes them.
The new conſtitution has been received here officially, but no one ſeemſ to take the leaſt intereſt in it: it is regarded in juſt the ſame light as a new tax, or any other miniſterial mandate, not ſent to be diſcuſſed but obeyed. The mode of proclaiming it conveyed a very juſt idea of itſ origin and tendency. It was placed on a cuſhion, ſupported by Jacobinſ in their red caps, and ſurrounded by dragoons. It ſeemed the image of Anarchy, guarded by Deſpotiſm.—In this manner they paraded the town, and the "ſacred volume" was then depoſed on an altar erected on the Grande Place.—The Garde Nationale, who were ordered to be under arms, attended, and the conſtitution was read. A few of the ſoldiers cried "Vive la republique!" and every one returned home with countenances in which delight was by no means the prevailing expreſſion.
A trifling incident which I noticed on this occaſion, will ſerve, among others of the ſame kind that I could enumerate, to prove that even the very lower claſs of the people begin to ridicule and deſpiſe their legiſlators. While a municipal officer was very gravely reading the conſtitution, an aſs forced his way acroſs the ſquare, and placed himſelf near the ſpot where the ceremony was performing: a boy, who was under our window, on obſerving it, cried out, "Why don't they give him the accolade fraternelle!"*
* Fraternal embrace.—This is the reception given by the Preſident to any one whom the Convention wiſh particularly to diſtinguiſh. On an occaſion of the ſort, the fraternal embrace was given to an old Negreſs.—The honours of the fitting are alſo daily accorded to deputations of fiſh-women, chimney-ſweepers, children, and all whoſe miſſions are flattering. There is no homage ſo mean as not to gratify the pride of thoſe to whom dominion is new; and theſe expreſſions are ſo often and ſo ſtrangely applied, that it is not ſurprizing they are become the cant phraſes of the mob.
—"Yes, (rejoined another,) and admit him aux honneurs de la feance." [To the honours of the fitting.] This diſpoſition to jeſt with their miſfortunes is, however, not ſo common as it was formerly. A bon mot may alleviate the loſs of a battle, and a lampoon on the court ſolace under the burthen of a new impoſt; but the moſt thoughtleſs or improvident can find nothing very facetious in the proſpect of abſolute want—and thoſe who have been uſed to laugh under a circumſcription of their political liberty, feel very ſeriouſly the evil of a government which endows itſ members with unlimited power, and enables a Deputy, often the meaneſt and moſt profligate character of his department, to impriſon all who, from caprice, intereſt, or vengeance, may have become the objects of hiſ perſecution.
I know this will appear ſo monſtrous to an Engliſhman, that, had I an opportunity of communicating ſuch a circumſtance before it were publicly authenticated, you would ſuppoſe it impoſſible, and imagine I had been miſtaken, or had written only from report; it is nevertheleſs true, that every part of France is infeſted by theſe Commiſſioners, who diſpoſe, without appeal, of the freedom and property of the whole department to which they are ſent. It frequently happens, that men are delegated to places where they have reſided, and thus have an opportunity of gratifying their perſonal malice on all who are ſo unfortunate as to be obnoxious to them. Imagine, for a moment, a village-attorney acting with uncontrouled authority over the country where he formerly exerciſed hiſ profeſſion, and you will have ſome idea of what paſſes here, except that I hope no claſs of men in England are ſo bad as thoſe which compoſe the major part of the National Convention.—Yours, &c.
The events of Paris which are any way remarkable are ſo generally circulated, that I do not often mention them, unleſs to mark their effect on the provinces; but you will be ſo much miſled by the public paperſ with regard to the death of Marat, that I think it neceſſary to notice the ſubject while it is yet recent in my memory. Were the clubs, the Convention, or the ſections of Paris to be regarded as expreſſing the ſenſe of the people, the aſſaſſination of this turbulent journaliſt muſt be conſidered being the caſe, that the departments are for the moſt part, if not rejoiced, indifferent—and many of thoſe who impute to him the honour of martyrdom, or aſſiſt at his apotheoſis, are much better ſatiſfied both with his chriſtian and heathen glories, than they were while he was living to propagate anarchy and pillage. The reverence of the Convention itſelf is a mere political pantomime. Within the laſt twelve months nearly all the individuals who compoſe it have treated Marat with contempt; and I perfectly remember even Danton, one of the members of the Committee of Salut Publique, accuſing him of being a contre revolutionnaire.
But the people, to uſe a popular expreſſion here, require to be electrified.—St. Fargeau is almoſt forgotten, and Marat is to ſerve the ſame purpoſes when dead, to which he contributed while living.—An extreme groſſneſs and want of feeling form the characteriſtic feature of the Pariſians; they are ignorant, credulous, and material, and the Convention do not fail on all occaſions to avail themſelves of theſe qualities. The corpſe of Marat decently encloſed in a coffin would have made little impreſſion, and it was not pity, but revenge, which was to be excited. The diſguſting object of a dead leper was therefore expoſed to the eyes of a metropolis calling itſelf the moſt refined and enlightened of all Europe—
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"And what t'oblivion better were conſign'd, Is hung on high to poiſon half mankind." |
I know not whether theſe lines are moſt applicable to the diſplay of Marat's body, or the conſecration of his fame, but both will be a laſting ſtigma on the manners and morals of Paris.
If the departments, however, take no intereſt in the loſs of Marat, the young woman who aſſaſſinated him has created a very lively one. The ſlighteſt anecdotes concerning her are collected with avidity, and repeated with admiration; and this is a ſtill farther proof of what you have heard me advance, that neither patriotiſm nor humanity has an abundant growth in this country. The French applaud an act in itſelf horrid and unjuſtifiable, while they have ſcarcely any conception of the motive, and ſuch a ſacrifice ſeems to them ſomething ſupernatural.—The Jacobins aſſert, that Charlotte Corday was an emiſſary of the allied powers, or, rather, of Mr. Pitt; and the Pariſians have the complaiſance to believe, that a young woman could devote herſelf to certain deſtruction at the inſtigation of another, as though the ſame principleſ which would lead a perſon to undertake a diplomatic commiſſion, would induce her to meet death.
I wrote ſome days ago to a lady of my acquaintance at Caen, to beg ſhe would procure me ſome information relative to this extraordinary female, and I ſubjoin an extract of her anſwer, which I have juſt received:
"Miſs Corday was a native of this department, and had, from her earlieſt years, been very carefully educated by an aunt who lives at Caen. Before ſhe was twenty ſhe had decided on taking the veil, and her noviciate waſ juſt expired when the Conſtituent Aſſembly interdicted all religious vowſ for the future: ſhe then left the convent, and reſided entirely with her aunt. The beauty of her perſon, and particularly her mental acquiſitions, which were ſuperior to that of French women in general, rendered an object of much admiration. She ſpoke uncommonly well, and her diſcourſe often turned on the ancients, and on ſuch ſubjects aſ indicated that maſculine turn of mind which has ſince proved ſo fatal to her. Perhaps her converſation was a little tinctured with that pedantry not unjuſtly attributed to our ſex when they have a little more knowledge than uſual, but, at the ſame time, not in ſuch a degree as to render it unpleaſant. She ſeldom gave any opinion on the revolution, but frequently attended the municipalities to ſolicit the penſions of the expelled religious, or on any other occaſion where ſhe could be uſeful to her friends. On the arrival of Petion, Barbaroux, and others of the Briſſotin faction, ſhe began to frequent the clubs, and to take a more lively intereſt in political affairs. Petion, and Barbaroux eſpecially, ſeemed to be much reſpected by her. It was even ſaid, ſhe had a tender partiality for the latter; but this I believe is untrue.—I dined with her at her aunt's on the Sunday previous to her departure for Paris. Nothing very remarkable appeared in her behaviour, except that ſhe waſ much affected by a muſter of the recruits who were to march againſt Paris, and ſeemed to think many lives might be loſt on the occaſion, without obtaining any relief for the country.—On the Tueſday following ſhe left Caen, under pretext of viſiting her father, who lives at Sens. Her aunt accompanied her to the gate of the town, and the ſeparation waſ extremely ſorrowful on both ſides. The ſubſequent events are too well known to need recital."
On her trial, and at her execution, Miſs Corday was firm and modeſt; and I have been told, that in her laſt moments her whole figure waſ intereſting beyond deſcription. She was tall, well formed, and beautiful—her eyes, eſpecially, were fine and expreſſive—even her dreſſ was not neglected, and a ſimple white diſhabille added to the charms of this ſelf-devoted victim. On the whole, it is not poſſible to aſcertain preciſely the motives which determined her to aſſaſſinate Marat. Her letter to Barbaroux expreſſes nothing but republican ſentiments; yet it is difficult to conceive that a young woman, who had voluntarily embraced the life of a cloiſter, could be really of this way of thinking.—I cannot but ſuppoſe her connection with the Deputies aroſe merely from an idea that they might be the inſtruments of reſtoring the aboliſhed government, and her profeſſion of republican principles after ſhe waſ arreſted might probably be with a view of ſaving Duperret, and others of the party, who were ſtill in the power of the Convention.—Her ſelection of Marat ſtill remains to be accounted for. He was, indeed, the moſt violent of the Jacobins, but not the moſt dangerous, and the death of ſeveral others might have been more ſerviceable to the cauſe. Marat was, however, the avowed perſecutor of prieſts and religion, and if we attribute any influence to Miſs Corday's former habits, we may ſuppoſe them to have had ſome ſhare in the choice of her victim. Her refuſal of the miniſtry of a conſtitutional prieſt at the ſcaffold ſtrengthens thiſ opinion. We pay a kind of involuntary tribute of admiration to ſuch firmneſs of mind in a young and beautiful woman; and I do not recollect that hiſtory has tranſmitted any thing parallel to the heroiſm of Charlotte Corday. Love, revenge, and ambition, have often ſacrificed their victims, and ſuſtained the courage of their voluntaries under puniſhment; but a female, animated by no perſonal motives, ſenſible only to the miſfortunes of her country, patriotic both from feeling and reflection, and ſacrificing herſelf from principle, is ſingular in the annals of human nature.—Yet, after doing juſtice to ſuch an inſtance of fortitude and philanthropic devotion, I cannot but ſincerely lament the act to which it has given riſe. At a time when ſo many ſpirits are irritated by deſpair and oppreſſion, the example may be highly pernicious, and a cauſe, however good, muſt always be injured by the uſe of ſuch means in its ſupport.—Nothing can ſanctify an aſſaſſination; and were not the French more vindictive than humane, the crimes of the republican party would find a momentary refuge in this injudicious effort to puniſh them.
My friend La Marquiſe de ____ has left Paris, and is now at Peronne, where ſhe has engaged me to paſs a few weeks with her; ſo that my next will moſt probably be dated from thence.—Mr. D____ is endeavouring to get a paſſport for England. He begins to regret having remained here. His temper, naturally impatient of reſtraint, accords but ill with the portion of liberty enjoyed by our republicans. Corporal privations and mental interdictions multiply ſo faſt, that irritable people like himſelf, and valetudinarians like Mrs. C____ and me, could not chooſe a worſe reſidence; and, as we are now unanimous on the ſubject, I hope ſoon to leave the country.—There is, as you obſerve in your laſt, ſomething of indolence as well as friendſhip in my having ſo long remained here; but if actions were always analyzed ſo ſtrictly, and we were not allowed to derive a little credit from our weakneſſes, how many great characterſ would be reduced to the common level. Voltaire introduced a ſort of rage for anecdotes, and for tracing all events to trifling cauſes, which haſ done much more towards exploding the old-faſhioned ſyſtem or the dignity of human nature than the dry maxims of Rochefaucault, the ſophiſms of Mandeville, or even the malicious wit of Swift. This is alſo another effect of the progreſs of philoſophy; and this ſort of moral Quixotiſm, continually in ſearch of evil, and more gratified in diſcovering it than pained by its exiſtence, may be very philoſophical; but it is at leaſt gloomy and diſcouraging; and we may be permitted to doubt whether mankind become wiſer or better by learning, that thoſe who have been moſt remarkable either for wiſdom or virtue were occaſionally under the influence of the ſame follies and paſſions as other people.—Your uncharitable diſcernment, you ſee, has led me into a digreſſion, and I have, without intending it, connected the motives of my ſtay with reflections on Voltaire's General Hiſtory, Barillon's Letters, and all the ſecret biography of our modern libraries. This, you will ſay, iſ only a chapter of a "man's importance to himſelf;" but public affairs are now ſo confuſed and diſguſting, that we are glad to encourage any train of ideas not aſſociated with them.
The Commiſſioners I gave you ſome account of in a former letter are departed, and we have lately had Chabot, an Ex-capuchin, and a patriot of ſpecial note in the Convention, and one Dumont, an attorney of a neighbouring village. They are, like all the reſt of theſe miſſionaries, entruſted with unlimited powers, and inſpire apprehenſion and diſmay wherever they approach.
The Garde Nationale of Amiens are not yet entirely ſubdued to the times, and Chabot gave ſome hints of a project to diſarm them, and actually attempted to arreſt ſome of their officers; but, apprized of his deſign, they remained two nights under arms, and the Capuchin, who is not martially inclined, was ſo alarmed at this indication of reſiſtance, that he has left the town with more haſte than ceremony.—He had, in an harangue at the cathedral, inculcated ſome very edifying doctrines on the diviſion of property and the right of pillage; and it is not improbable, had he not withdrawn, but the Amienois would have ventured, on thiſ pretext, to arreſt him. Some of them contrived, in ſpite of the centinel placed at the lodging of theſe great men, to paſte up on the door two figures, with the names of Chabot and Dumont; in the "fatal poſition of the unfortunate brave;" and though certain events in the lives of theſe Deputies may have rendered this perſpective of their laſt moments not abſolutely a novelty, yet I do not recollect that Akenſide, or any other author, has enumerated a gibbet amongſt the objects, which, though not agreeable in themſelves, may be reconciled to the mind by familiarity. I wiſh, therefore, our repreſentatives may not, in return for thiſ admonitory portrait of their latter end, draw down ſome vengeance on the town, not eaſily to be appeaſed. I am no aſtrologer, but in our ſublunary world the conjunction of an attorney and a renegade monk cannot preſent a fortunate aſpect; and I am truly anxious to find myſelf once again under the more benign influence of your Engliſh hemiſphere.—Yours.