For ſome days the guards have been ſo untractable, and the croud at the door has been ſo great, that Fleury was obliged to make various effortſ before he could communicate the reſult of his negotiation. He has at length found means to inform us, that his friend the tailor had exerted all his intereſt in our favour, but that Dumont and Le Bon (as often happens between neighbouring potentates) are at war, and their enmity being in ſome degree ſubject to their mutual fears, neither will venture to liberate any priſoner arreſted by the other, leſt ſuch a diſpoſition to clemency ſhould be ſeized on by his rival as a ground of accuſation.*
* But if they did not free the enemies of each other, they revenged themſelves by throwing into priſon all their mutual friendſ—for the temper of the times was ſuch, that, though theſe Repreſentativeſ were expreſſly inveſted with unlimited powers, they did not venture to ſet any one at liberty without a multitude of forms and a long attendance: on the contrary, they arreſted without any form at all, and allowed their myrmidons to harraſs and confine the perſons and ſequeſter the property of all whom they judged proper.—It ſeemed to have been an elementary principle with thoſe employed by the government at this time, that they riſked nothing in doing all the miſchief they could, and that they erred only in not doing enough.
—All, therefore, that can be obtained is, a promiſe to have us removed to Amiens in a ſhort time; and I underſtand the detenus are there treated with conſideration, and that no tribunal revolutionnaire has yet been eſtabliſhed.
My mind will be conſiderably more at eaſe if this removal can be effected. Perhaps we may not be in more real danger here than at any other place, but it is not realities that conſtitute the miſery of life; and ſituated as we are, that imagination muſt be phlegmatic indeed, which does not create and exaggerate enough to prevent the poſſibility of eaſe.—We are, as I before obſerved, placed as it were within the juriſdiction of the guillotine; and I have learned "a ſecret of our priſon-houſe" to-day which Mad. de ____ had hitherto concealed from me, and which has rendered me ſtill more anxious to quit it. Several of our fellow priſoners, whom I ſuppoſed only tranſferred to other houſes, have been taken away to undergo the ceremony of a trial, and from thence to the ſcaffold. Theſe judicial maſſacres are now become common, and the repetition of them has deſtroyed at once the feeling of humanity and the ſenſe of juſtice. Familiarized to executions, the thoughtleſs and ſanguinary people behold with equal indifference the guilty or innocent victim; and the Guillotine has not only ceaſed to be an object of horror, but is become almoſt a ſource of amuſement.
* At Arras this horrid inſtrument of death was what they called en permanence, (ſtationary,) and ſo little regard was paid to the morals of the people, (I ſay the morals, becauſe every thing which tends to deſtroy their humanity renders them vicious,) that it waſ often left from one execution to another with the enſanguined traceſ of the laſt victim but too evident.—Children were taught to amuſe themſelves by making models of the Guillotine, with which they deſtroyed flies, and even animals. On the Pontneuf, at Paris, a ſort of puppet-ſhow was exhibited daily, whoſe boaſt it was to give a very exact imitation of a guillotinage; and the burthen of a popular ſong current for ſome months was "Danſons la Guillotine." —On the 21ſt of January, 1794, the anniverſary of the King's death, the Convention were invited to celebrate it on the "Place de la Revolution," where, during the ceremony, and in preſence of the whole legiſlative body, ſeveral people were executed. It is true, Bourdon, one of the Deputies, complained of this indecency; but not ſo much on account of the circumſtance itſelf, as becauſe it gave ſome of the people an opportunity of telling him, in a ſort of way he might probably deem prophetic, that one of the victims was a Repreſentative of the People. The Convention pretended to order that ſome enquiry ſhould be made why at ſuch a moment ſuch a place was choſen; but the enquiry came to nothing, and I have no doubt but the executions were purpoſely intended as analogous to the ceremony.—It was proved that Le Bon, on an occaſion when he choſe to be a ſpectator of ſome executions he had been the cauſe of, ſuſpended the operation while he read the newſpaper aloud, in order, as he ſaid, that the ariſtocrates might go out of the world with the additional mortification of learning the ſucceſs of the republican arms in their laſt moments. The People of Breſt were ſuffered to behold, I had almoſt ſaid to be amuſed with (for if thoſe who order ſuch ſpectacles are deteſtable, the people that permit them are not free from blame,) the ſight of twenty-five heads ranged in a line, and ſtill convulſed with the agonies of death.—The cant word for the Guillotine was "our holy mother;" and verdicts of condemnation were called prizes in the Sainte Lotterie—"holy lottery."
The dark and ferocious character of Le Bon developes itſelf hourly: the whole department trembles before him; and thoſe who have leaſt merited perſecution are, with reaſon, the moſt apprehenſive. The moſt cautiouſ prudence of conduct, the moſt undeviating rectitude in thoſe who are by their fortune or rank obnoxious to the tyrant, far from contributing to their ſecurity, only mark them out for a more early ſacrifice. What iſ ſtill worſe, theſe horrors are not likely to terminate, becauſe he iſ allowed to pay out of the treaſury of the department the mob that are employed to popularize and applaud them.—I hope, in a few days, we ſhall receive our permiſſion to depart. My impatience is a malady, and, for nearly the firſt time in my life, I am ſenſible of ennui; not the ennui occaſioned by want of amuſement, but that which is the effect of unquiet expectation, and which makes both the mind and body reſtleſs and incapable of attending to any thing. I am inceſſantly haunted by the idea that the companion of to-day may to-morrow expire under the Guillotine, that the common acts of ſocial intercourſe may be explained into intimacy, intimacy into the participation of imputed treaſons, and the fate of thoſe with whom we are aſſociated become our own. It appearſ both uſeleſs and cruel to have brought us here, nor do I yet know any reaſon why we were not all removed to Amiens, except it was to avoid expoſing to the eyes of the people in the places through which we muſt paſs too large a number of victims at once.—The cauſe of our being removed from Peronne is indeed avowed, as it is at preſent a rule not to confine people at the place of their reſidence, leſt they ſhould have too much facility or communication with, or aſſiſtance from, their friends.*
* In ſome departments the nobles and prieſts arreſted were removed from ten to twenty leagues diſtant from their homes; and if they happened to have relations living at the places where they were confined, theſe laſt were forbidden to reſide there, or even to travel that way.
We ſhould doubtleſs have remained at Arras until ſome change in public affairs had procured our releaſe, but for the fortunate diſcovery of the man I have mentioned; and the trifling favour of removal from one priſon to another has been obtained only by certain arrangements which Fleury has made with this ſubordinate agent of tyranny, and in which juſtice or conſideration for us had no ſhare. Alaſ! are we not miſerable? is not the country miſerable, when our only reſource is in the vices of thoſe who govern?—It is uncertain when we ſhall be ordered from hence—it may happen when we leaſt expect it, even in the night, ſo that I ſhall not attempt to write again till we have changed our ſituation. The riſk iſ at preſent too ſerious, and you muſt allow my deſire of amuſing you to give way to my ſolicitude for my own preſervation.
Nous voila donc encore, logees a la nation; that is to ſay, the common priſon of the department, amidſt the thieves, vagabonds, maniacs, &c. confined by the old police, and the gens ſuſpects recently arreſted by the new.—I write from the end of a ſort of elevated barn, ſixty or ſeventy feet long, where the interſtices of the tiles admit the wind from all quarters, and ſcarcely exclude the rain, and where an old ſcreen and ſome curtains only ſeparate Mad. de ____, myſelf, and our ſervants, from ſixty prieſts, moſt of them old, ſick, and as wretched as men can be, who are pious and reſigned. Yet even here I feel comparatively at eaſe, and an eſcape from the juriſdiction of Le Bon and his mercileſs tribunal ſeems cheaply purchaſed by the ſacrifice of our perſonal convenience. I do not pretend to philoſophize or ſtoicize, or to any thing elſe which implies a contempt of life—I have, on the contrary, a moſt unheroic ſolicitude about my exiſtence, and conſider my removal to a place where I think we are ſafe, as a very fortunate aera of our captivity.
After many delays and diſappointments, Fleury at length procured an order, ſigned by the Repreſentative, for our being tranſferred to Amiens, under the care of two Gardes Nationalaux, and, of courſe, at our expence.—Every thing in this country wears the aſpect of deſpotiſm. At twelve o'clock at night we were awakened by the officer on guard, and informed we were to depart on the morrow; and, notwithſtanding the difficulty of procuring horſes and carriages, it was ſpecified, that if we did not go on the day appointed, we were not to go at all. It was, or courſe, late before we could ſurmount the various obſtacles to our journey, and procure two crazy cabriolets, and a cart for the guards, ourſelves, and baggage. The days being ſhort, we were obliged to ſleep at Dourlens; and, on our arrival at the caſtle, which is now, as it always has been, a ſtate-priſon, we were told it was ſo full, that it waſ abſolutely impoſſible to lodge us, and that we had better apply to the Governor, for permiſſion to ſleep at an inn. We then drove to the Governor'ſ* houſe, who received us very civilly, and with very little perſuaſion agreed to our requeſt. At the beſt of the miſerable inns in the town we were informed they had no room, and that they could not accommodate us in any way whatever, except a ſick officer then in the houſe would permit us to occupy one of two beds in his apartment.
* The Commandant had been originally a private ſoldier in the regiment of Dillon.—I know not how he had obtained his advancement, but, however obtained, it proved fatal to him: he was, a very ſhort time after I ſaw him, guillotined at Arras, for having borrowed money of a priſoner. His real crime was, probably, treating the priſoners in general with too much conſideration and indulgence; and at this period every ſuſpicion of the kind was fatal.
In England it would not be very decent to make ſuch a requeſt, or to accept ſuch an accommodation. In France, neither the one nor the other is unuſual, and we had ſuffered lately ſo many embarraſſments of the kind, that we were, if not reconciled, at leaſt inured to them. Before, however, we could determine, the gentleman had been informed of our ſituation, and came to offer his ſervices. You may judge of our ſurprize when we found in the ſtranger, who had his head bound up and his arm in a ſling, General ____, a relation of Mad. de ____. We had now, therefore, leſs ſcruple in ſharing his room, though we agreed, notwithſtanding, only to repoſe a few hours in our clothes.
After taking ſome tea, the remainder of the evening was dedicated to reciprocal converſation of all kinds; and our guards having acquaintance in the town, and knowing it was impoſſible for us to eſcape, even were we ſo inclined, very civilly left us to ourſelves. We found the General had been wounded at Maubeuge, and was now abſent on conge for the recovery of his health. He talked of the preſent ſtate of public affairs like a military man who is attached to his profeſſion, and who thinks it hiſ duty to fight at all events, whatever the rights or merits of thoſe that employ him. He confeſſed, indeed, that they were repulſing their external enemies, only to confirm the power of thoſe who were infinitely more to be dreaded at home, and that the condition of a General was more to be commiſerated at this time than any other: if he miſcarry, diſgrace and the Guillotine await him—if he be ſucceſſful, he gains little honour, becomes an object of jealouſy, and aſſiſts in rivetting the chains of his country. He ſaid, the armies were for the moſt part licentious and inſubordinate, but that the political diſcipline waſ terrible—the ſoldiers are allowed to drink, pillage, and inſult their officers with impunity, but all combinations are rigorouſly ſuppreſſed, the ſlighteſt murmur againſt the Repreſentative on miſſion is treaſon, and to diſapprove of a decree of the convention, death—that every man of any note in the army is beſet with ſpies, and if they leave the camp on any occaſion, it is more neceſſary to be on their guard againſt theſe wretches than againſt an ambuſcade of the enemy; and he related a circumſtance which happened to himſelf, as an example of what he mentioned, and which will give you a tolerable idea of the preſent ſyſtem of government.—After the relief of Dunkirk, being quartered in the neighbourhood of St. Omer, he occaſionally went to the town on hiſ private concerns. One day, while he was waiting at the inn where he intended to dine, two young men accoſted him, and after engaging him in a general converſation for ſome time, began to talk with great freedom, though with an affected caution of public men and meaſures, of the banditti who governed, the tyranny that was exerciſed, and the ſupineneſſ of the people: in ſhort, of all thoſe too poignant truths which conſtitute the leze nation of the day. Mons. de ____ was not at firſt very attentive, but finding their diſcourſe become ſtill more liberal, it excited his ſuſpicions, and caſting his eyes on a glaſs oppoſite to where they were converſing, he perceived a ſort of intelligence between them, which immediately ſuggeſted to him the profeſſion of his companions; and calling to a couple of dragoons who had attended him, ordered them to arreſt the two gentlemen as artiſtocrates, and convey them without ceremony to priſon. They ſubmitted, ſeemingly more ſurprized than alarmed, and in two hours the General received a note from a higher power, deſiring him to ſet them at liberty, as they were agents of the republic.
Duqueſnoy, one of the Repreſentatives now with the Northern army, iſ ignorant and brutal in the extreme. He has made his brother (who, aſ well as himſelf, uſed to retail hops in the ſtreets of St. Pol,) a General; and in order to deliver him from rivals and critics, he breaks, ſuſpends, arreſts, and ſends to the Guillotine every officer of any merit that comes in his way. After the battle of Maubeuge, he arreſted a General Bardell, [The Generals Bardell and D'Aveſnes, and ſeveral others, were afterwards guillotined at Paris.] for accommodating a wounded priſoner of diſtinction (I think a relation of the Prince of Cobourg) with a bed, and tore with his own hands the epaulette from the ſhoulderſ of thoſe Generals whoſe diviſions had not ſuſtained the combat ſo well aſ the others. His temper, naturally ſavage and choleric, is irritated to fury by the habit of drinking large quantities of ſtrong liquors; and Mad. de ___'s relation aſſured us, that he had himſelf ſeen him take the Mayor of Aveſnes (a venerable old man, who was preſenting ſome petition to him that regarded the town,) by the hair and throw him on the ground, with the geſtures of an enraged cannibal. He alſo confined one of hiſ own fellow deputies in the tower of Guiſe, upon a very frivolous pretext, and merely on his own authority. In fact, I ſcarcely remember half the horrors told us of this man; and I ſhall only remind you, that he has an unlimited controul over the civil conſtitution of the Northern army, and over the whole department of the North.
You, I ſuppoſe, will be better informed of military events than we are, and I mention our friend's conjecture, that (beſides an enormous number of killed) the wounded at Maubeuge amounted to twelve or fourteen thouſand, only to remark the deception which is ſtill practiſed on the people; for no publiſhed account ever allowed the number to be more than a few hundreds.—Beſides theſe profeſſional details, the General gave uſ ſome very unpleaſant family ones. On returning to his father's chateau, where he hoped to be taken care of while his wounds were curing, he found every room in it under ſeals, three guards in poſſeſſion, his two ſiſterſ arreſted at St. Omer, where they happened to be on a viſit, and hiſ father and mother confined in ſeparate houſes of detention at Arras. After viſiting them, and making ſome ineffectual applications for their relief, he came to the neighbourhood of Dourlens, expecting to find an aſylum with an uncle, who had hitherto eſcaped the general perſecution of the gentry. Here again his diſappointment and chagrin were renewed: hiſ uncle had been carried off to Amiens the morning of his arrival, and the houſe rendered inacceſſible, by the uſual affixture of ſeals, and an attendant pair of myrmidons to guard them from infraction. Thus excluded from all his family habitations, he had taken up his reſidence for a day or two at the inn where we met him, his intention being to return to Arras.
In the morning we made our adieus and purſued our journey; but, tenaciouſ of this comparative liberty and the enjoyment of pure air, we prevailed on our conductors to let us dine on the road, ſo that we lingered with the unwillingneſs of truant children, and did not reach Amiens until dark. When we arrived at the Hotel de Ville, one of the guards enquired how we were to be diſpoſed of. Unfortunately for us, Dumont happened to be there himſelf, and on hearing we were ſent from Arras by order of Le Bon, declared moſt furiouſly (for our Repreſentative is ſubject to choler ſince his acceſſion to greatneſs) that he would have no priſonerſ received from Arras, and that we ſhould ſleep at the Conciergerie, and be conveyed back again on the morrow. Terrified at this menace, we perſuaded the guard to repreſent to Dumont that we had been ſent to Amiens at our own inſtance, and that we had been originally arreſted by himſelf, and were therefore deſirous of returning to the department where he was on miſſion, and where we had more reaſon to expect juſtice than at Arras. Mollified, perhaps, by this implied preference of his authority, he conſented that we ſhould remain for the preſent at Amiens, and ordered us to be taken to the Bicetre. Whoever has been uſed to connect with the word Bicetre the idea of the priſon ſo named at Paris, muſt recoil with horror upon hearing they are deſtined to ſuch a abode. Mad. de ___, yet weak from the remains of her illneſs, laid hold of me in a tranſport of grief; but, far from being able to calm or conſole her, my thoughts were ſo bewildered that I did not, till we alighted at the gate, begin to be really ſenſible of our ſituation. The night was dark and dreary, and our firſt entrance was into a kitchen, ſuch as my imagination had pictured the ſubterraneous one of the robbers in Gil Blas. Here we underwent the ceremony of having our pocket-books ſearched for papers and letters, and our trunks rummaged for knives and fire-arms. This done, we were ſhown to the lodging I have deſcribed, and the poor prieſts, already inſufferably crouded, were obliged almoſt to join their beds in order to make room for us.—I will not pain you by a recital of all the embarraſſments and diſtreſſes we had to ſurmount before we could even reſt ourſelves. We were in want of every thing, and the rules of the priſon ſuch, that it was nearly impoſſible, for ſome time, to procure any thing: but the human mind is more flexible than we are often diſpoſed to imagine it; and in two days we were able to ſee our ſituation in thiſ beſt point of view, (that is, as an eſcape from Arras,) and the affair of ſubmitting our bodies to our minds muſt be atchieved by time.—We have now been here a week. We have ſounded the very depth of humiliation, taken our daily allowance of bread with the reſt of the priſoners, and contracted a moſt friendly intimacy with the gaoler.
I have diſcovered ſince our arrival, that the order for tranſferring uſ hither deſcribed me as a native of the Low Countries. I know not how this happened, but my friend has inſiſted on my not rectifying the miſtake, for as the French talk continually of re-conquering Brabant, ſhe perſuades herſelf ſuch an event would procure me my liberty. I neither deſire the one nor expect the other; but, to indulge her, I ſpeak no Engliſh, and avoid two or three of my countrymen who I am told are here. There have been alſo ſome Engliſh families who were lately removed, but the French pronounce our names ſo ſtrangely, that I have not been able to learn who they were.
The Engliſh in general, eſpecially of late years, have been taught to entertain very formidable notions of the Baſtille and other ſtate priſonſ of the ancient government, and they were, no doubt, horrid enough; yet I have not hitherto been able to diſcover that thoſe of the new republic are any way preferable. The only difference is, that the great number of priſoners which, for want of room, are obliged to be heaped together, makes it impoſſible to exclude them as formerly from communication, and, inſtead of being maintained at the public expence, they now, with great difficulty, are able to procure wherewithal to eat at their own. Our preſent habitation is an immenſe building, about a quarter of a mile from the town, intended originally for the common gaol of the province. The ſituation is damp and unwholeſome, and the water ſo bad, that I ſhould ſuppoſe a long continuance here of ſuch a number of priſoners muſt be productive of endemical diſorders. Every avenue to the houſe is guarded, and no one is permitted to ſtop and look up at the windows, under pain of becoming a reſident. We are ſtrictly prohibited from all external intercourſe, except by writing; and every ſcrap of paper, though but an order for a dinner, paſſes the inquiſition of three different people before it reaches its deſtination, and, of courſe, many letters and noteſ are miſlaid, and never ſent at all.—There is no court or garden in which the priſoners are allowed to walk, and the only exerciſe they can take iſ in damp paſſages, or a ſmall yard, (perhaps thirty feet ſquare,) which often ſmells ſo deteſtably, that the atmoſphere of the houſe itſelf iſ leſs mephitic.
Our fellow-captives are a motley collection of the victims of nature, of juſtice, and of tyranny—of lunatics who are inſenſible of their ſituation, of thieves who deſerve it, and of political criminals whoſe guilt is the accident of birth, the imputation of wealth, or the profeſſion of a clergyman. Among the latter is the Biſhop of Amiens, whom I recollect to have mentioned in a former letter. You will wonder why a conſtitutional Biſhop, once popular with the democratic party, ſhould be thus treated. The real motive was, probably, to degrade in hiſ perſon a miniſter of religion—the oſtenſible one, a diſpute with Dumont at the Jacobin club. As the times grew alarming, the Biſhop, perhaps, thought it politic to appear at the club, and the Repreſentative meeting him there one evening, began to interrogate him very rudely with regard to his opinion of the marriage of prieſts. M. Dubois replied, that when it was officially incumbent on him to explain himſelf, he would do ſo, but that he did not think the club a place for ſuch diſcuſſions, or ſomething to this purpoſe. "Tu prevariques donc!—Je t'arrete ſur le champ:" ["What, you prevaricate!—I arreſt you inſtantly."] the Biſhop was accordingly arreſted at the inſtant, and conducted to the Bicetre, without even being ſuffered to go home and furniſh himſelf with neceſſaries; and the ſeals being immediately put on his effects, he haſ never been able to obtain a change of linen and clothes, or any thing elſe—this too at a time when the penſions of the clergy are ill paid, and every article of clothing ſo dear as to be almoſt unpurchaſeable by moderate fortunes, and when thoſe who might otherwiſe be diſpoſed to aid or accommodate their friends, abandon them through fear of being implicated in their miſfortunes.
But the Biſhop, yet in the vigour of life, is better capable of enduring theſe hardſhips than moſt of the poor prieſts with whom he is aſſociated: the greater number of them are very old men, with venerable grey lockſ— and their tattered clerical habits, ſcanty meals, and wretched beds, give me many an heart-ache. God ſend the conſtant ſight of ſo much miſery may not render me callouſ!—It is certain, there are people here, who, whatever their feelings might have been on this occaſion at firſt, ſeem now little affected by it. Thoſe who are too much familiarized with ſcenes of wretchedneſs, as well as thoſe to whom they are unknown, are not often very ſuſceptible; and I am ſometimes diſpoſed to cavil with our natures, that the ſufferings which ought to excite our benevolence, and the proſperity that enables us to relieve them, ſhould ever have a contrary effect. Yet this is ſo true, that I have ſcarcely ever obſerved even the poor conſiderate towards each other—and the rich, if they are frequently charitable, are not always compaſſionate.*
* Our ſituation at the Bicetre, though terrible for people unuſed to hardſhips or confinement, and in fact, wretched as perſonal inconvenience could make it, was yet Elyſium, compared to the priſons of other departments. At St. Omer, the priſoners were frequently diſturbed at midnight by the entrance of men into their apartments, who, with the deteſtable enſign of their order, (red caps,) and pipes in their mouths, came by way of frolic to ſearch their pockets, trunks, &c.—At Montreuil, the Maiſons d'Arret were under the direction of a Commiſſary, whoſe behaviour to the female priſoners was too atrocious for recital—two young women, in particular, who refuſed to purchaſe milder treatment, were locked up in a room for ſeventeen days.—Soon after I left Arras, every priſon became a den of horror. The miſerable inhabitants were ſubject to the agents of Le Bon, whoſe avarice, cruelty, and licentiouſneſs, were beyond any thing a humane mind can imagine. Sometimes the houſes were ſuddenly ſurrounded by an armed force, the priſonerſ turned out in the depth of winter for ſeveral hours into an open court, during the operation of robbing them of their pocket-books, buckles, ear-rings, or whatever article of value they had about them. At other times they were viſited by the ſame military array, and deprived of their linen and clothes. Their wine and proviſionſ were likewiſe taken from them in the ſame manner—wives were ſeparated from their huſbands, parents from their children, old men treated with the moſt ſavage barbarity, and young women with an indecency ſtill more abominable. All communication, either by writing or otherwiſe, was often prohibited for many days together, and an order was once given to prevent even the entry of proviſions, which was not revoked till the priſoners became abſolutely diſtreſſed. At the Hotel Dieu they were forbidden to draw more than a ſingle jug of water in twenty-four hours. At the Providence, the well was left three days without a cord, and when the unfortunate females confined there procured people to beg water of the neighbours, they were refuſed, "becauſe it was for priſoners, and if Le Bon heard of it he might be diſpleaſed!" Windows were blocked up, not to prevent eſcape, but to exclude air; and when the general ſcarcity rendered it impoſſible for the priſoners to procure ſufficient food for their ſupport, their ſmall portions were diminiſhed at the gate, under pretext of ſearching for letters, &c. —People, reſpectable both for their rank and character, were employed to clean the priſons and privies, while their low and inſolent tyrants looked on and inſulted them. On an occaſion when one of the Maiſons d'Arrets was on fire, guards were planted round, with orders to fire upon thoſe that ſhould attempt to eſcape.—My memory has but too faithfully recorded theſe and ſtill greater horrors; but curioſity would be gratified but too dearly by the relation. I added the above note ſome months after writing the letter to which it is annexed.
Beſides the gentry and clergy of this department, we have likewiſe for companions a number of inhabitants of Liſle, arreſted under circumſtanceſ ſingularly atrocious, even where atrocity is the characteriſtic of almoſt every proceeding.—In the month of Auguſt a decree was paſſed to oblige all the nobility, clergy, and their ſervants, as well as all thoſe perſons who had been in the ſervice of emigrants, to depart from Liſle in eight-and-forty hours, and prohibiting their reſidence within twenty leagues from the frontiers. Thus baniſhed from their own habitations, they took refuge in different towns, at the preſcribed diſtance; but, almoſt as ſoon as they were arrived, and had been at the expence of ſettling themſelves, they were arreſted as ſtrangers,* and conducted to priſon.
* I have before, I believe, noticed that the term eſtranger at thiſ time did not excluſively apply to foreigners, but to ſuch as had come from one town to another, who were at inns or on a viſit to their friends.
It will not be improper to notice here the conduct of the government towards the towns that have been beſieged. Thionville,* to whoſe gallant defence in 1792 France owed the retreat of the Pruſſians and the ſafety of Paris, was afterwards continually reproached with ariſtocracy; and when the inhabitants ſent a deputation to ſolicit an indemnity for the damage the town had ſuſtained during the bombardment a member of the Convention threatened them from the tribune with "indemnities a coup de baton!" that is, in our vernacular tongue, with a good thraſhing.
* Wimpſen, who commanded there, and whoſe conduct at the time waſ enthuſiaſtically admired, was driven, moſt probably by the ingratitude and ill treatment of the Convention, to head a party of the Foederaliſts.—Theſe legiſlators perpetually boaſt of imitating and ſurpaſſing the Romans, and it is certain, that their ingratitude has made more than one Coriolanus. The difference is, that they are not jealous for the liberty of the country, but for their own perſonal ſafety.
The inhabitants of Liſle, who had been equally ſerviceable in ſtopping the progreſs of the Auſtrians, for a long time petitioned without effect to obtain the ſums already voted for their relief. The nobleſſe, and others from thence who have been arreſted, as ſoon as it was known that they were Lillois, were treated with peculiar rigour;* and an armee revolutionnaire,** with the Guillotine for a ſtandard, has lately harraſſed the town and environs of Liſle, as though it were a conquered country.
* The Commandant of Liſle, on his arrival at the Bicetre, waſ ſtripped of a conſiderable ſum of money, and a quantity of plate he had unluckily brought with him by way of ſecurity. Out of this he is to be ſupplied with fifty livres at a time in paper, which, according to the exchange and the price of every thing, is, I ſuppoſe, about half a guinea. ** The armee revolutionnaire was firſt raiſed by order of the Jacobins, for the purpoſe of ſearching the countries for proviſions, and conducting them to Paris. Under this pretext, a levy was made of all the moſt deſperate ruffians that could be collected together. They were divided into companies, each with its attendant Guillotine, and then diſtributed in the different departments: they had extraordinary pay, and ſeem to have been ſubject to no diſcipline. Many of them were diſtinguiſhed by the repreſentation of a Guillotine in miniature, and a head juſt ſevered, on their cartouch-boxes. It would be impoſſible to deſcribe half the enormities committed by theſe banditti: wherever they went they were regarded as a ſcourge, and every heart ſhrunk at their approach. Lecointre, of Verſailles, a member of the Convention, complained that a band of theſe wretches entered the houſe of a farmer, one of his tenants, by night, and, after binding the family hand and foot, and helping themſelves to whatever they could find, they placed the farmer with his bare feet on the chaffing-diſh of hot aſhes, by way of forcing him to diſcover where he had ſecreted his plate and money, which having ſecured, they ſet all the veſſels of liquor running, and then retired.
You are not to ſuppoſe this a robbery, and the actors common thieves; all was in the uſual form—"au nom de la loi," and for the ſervice of the republic; and I do not mention this inſtance as remarkable, otherwiſe than as having been noticed in the Convention. A thouſand events of thiſ kind, even ſtill more atrocious, have happened; but the ſufferers who had not the means of defence as well as of complaint, were obliged, through policy, to be ſilent.
—The garriſon and national guard, indignant at the horrors they committed, obliged them to decamp. Even the people of Dunkirk, whoſe reſiſtance to the Engliſh, while the French army was collecting together for their relief, was perhaps of more conſequence than ten victories, have been ſince intimidated with Commiſſioners, and Tribunals, and Guillotines, as much as if they had been convicted of ſelling the town. In ſhort, under this philanthropic republic, perſecution ſeems to be very exactly proportioned to the ſervices rendered. A jealous and ſuſpiciouſ government does not forget, that the ſame energy of character which haſ enabled a people to defend themſelves againſt an external enemy, may alſo make them leſs ſubmiſſive to domeſtic oppreſſion; and, far from repaying them with the gratitude to which they have a claim, it treats them, on all occaſions, as opponents, whom it both fears and hates.
Nov. 22. We have been walking in the yard to-day with General Laveneur, who, for an act which in any other country would have gained him credit, is in this ſuſpended from his command.—When Cuſtine, a few weeks before his death, left the army to viſit ſome of the neighbouring towns, the command devolved on Laveneur, who received, along with other official papers, a liſt of counterſigns, which, having probably been made ſome time, and not altered conformably to the changes of the day, contained, among others, the words Condorcet—Conſtitution; and theſe were in their turn given out. On Cuſtine's trial, this was made a part of hiſ accuſation. Laveneur, recollecting that the circumſtance had happened in the abſence of Cuſtine, thought it incumbent on him to take the blame, if there were any, on himſelf, and wrote to Paris to explain the matter aſ it really ſtood; but his candour, without availing Cuſtine, drew perſecution on himſelf, and the only notice taken of his letter was an order to arreſt him. After being dragged from one town to another, like a criminal, and often lodged in dungeons and common priſons, he was at length depoſited here.
I know not if the General's principles are republican, but he has a very democratic pair of whiſkers, which he occaſionally ſtrokes, and ſeems to cheriſh with much affection. He is, however, a gentleman-like man, and expreſſes ſuch anxiety for the fate of his wife and children, who are now at Paris, that one cannot but be intereſted in his favour.—As the agentſ of the republic never err on the ſide of omiſſion, they arreſted Mons. Laveneur's aid-de-camp with him; and another officer of his acquaintance, who was ſuſpended, and living at Amiens, has ſhared the ſame fate, only for endeavouring to procure him a trifling accommodation. This gentleman called on Dumont, to beg that General Laveneur's ſervant might be permitted to go in and out of the priſon on his maſter's errands. After breakfaſting together, and converſing on very civil terms, Dumont told him, that as he concerned himſelf ſo much in behalf of his friend, he would ſend him to keep the latter company, and at the concluſion of hiſ viſit he was ſent priſoner to the Bicetre.
Perhaps the greater part of between three and four hundred thouſand people, now impriſoned on ſuſpicion, have been arreſted for reaſons aſ little ſubſtantial.
—I begin to fear my health will not reſiſt the hardſhip of a long continuance here. We have no fire-place, and are ſometimes ſtarved with partial winds from the doors and roof; at others faint and heartſick with the unhealthy air produced by ſo many living bodies. The water we drink is not preferable to the air we breathe; the bread (which is now every where ſcarce and bad) contains ſuch a mixture of barley, rye, damaged wheat, and traſh of all kinds, that, far from being nouriſhed by it, I loſe both my ſtrength and appetite daily.—Yet theſe are not the worſt of our ſufferings. Shut out from all ſociety, victims of a deſpotic and unprincipled government capable of every thing, and ignorant of the fate which may await us, we are occaſionally oppreſſed by a thouſand melancholy apprehenſions. I might, indeed, have boaſted of my fortitude, and have made myſelf an heroine on paper at as ſmall an expence of words as it has coſt me to record my cowardice: but I am of an unlucky conformation, and think either too much or too little (I know not which) for a female philoſopher; beſides, philoſophy is getting into ſuch ill repute, that not poſſeſſing the reality, the name of it is not worth aſſuming.
A poor old prieſt told me juſt now, (while Angelique was mending hiſ black coat with white thread,) that they had left at the place where they were laſt confined a large quantity of linen, and other neceſſaries; but, by the expreſs orders of Dumont, they were not allowed to bring a ſingle article away with them. The keeper, too, it ſeems, was threatened with diſmiſſion, for ſupplying one of them with a ſhirt.—In England, where, I believe, you ally political expediency as much as you can with juſtice and humanity, theſe cruelties, at once little and refined, will appear incredible; and the French themſelves, who are at leaſt aſhamed of, if they are not pained by, them, are obliged to ſeek refuge in the fancied palliative of a "ſtate of revolution."—Yet, admitting the neceſſity of confining the perſons of theſe old men, there can be none for heaping them together in filth and miſery, and adding to the ſufferings of yearſ and infirmity by thoſe of cold and want. If, indeed, a ſtate of revolution require ſuch deeds, and imply an apology for them, I cannot but wiſh the French had remained as they were, for I know of no political changes that can compenſate for turning a civilized nation into a people of ſavages. It is not ſurely the eating acorns or ragouts, a well-powdered head, or one decorated with red feathers, that conſtituteſ the difference between barbariſm and civilization; and, I fear, if the French proceed as they have begun, the advantage of morals will be conſiderably on the ſide of the unrefined ſavages.
The converſation of the priſon has been much engaged by the fate of an Engliſh gentleman, who lately deſtroyed himſelf in a Maiſon d'Arret at Amiens. His confinement had at firſt deeply affected his ſpirits, and his melancholy increaſing at the proſpect of a long detention, terminated in deranging his mind, and occaſioned this laſt act of deſpair.—I never hear of ſuicide without a compaſſion mingled with terror, for, perhaps, ſimple pity is too light an emotion to be excited by an event which reminds us, that we are ſuſceptible of a degree of miſery too great to be borne—too ſtrong for the efforts of inſtinct, reflection, and religion. —I could moralize on the neceſſity of habitual patience, and the benefit of preparing the mind for great evils by a philoſophic endurance of little ones; but I am at the Bicetre—the winds whiſtle round me—I am beſet by petty diſtreſſes, and we do not expatiate to advantage on endurance while we have any thing to endure.—Seneca's contempt for the things of this world was doubtleſs ſuggeſted in the palace of Nero. He would not have treated the ſubject ſo well in diſgrace and poverty. Do not ſuppoſe I am affecting to be pleaſant, for I write in the ſober ſadneſs of conviction, that human fortitude is often no better than a pompous theory, founded on ſelf-love and ſelf-deception.
I was ſurprized at meeting among our fellow-priſoners a number of Dutch officers. I find they had been ſome time in the town on their parole, and were ſent here by Dumont, for refuſing to permit their men to work on the fortifications.—The French government and its agents deſpiſe the laws of war hitherto obſerved; they conſider them as a ſort of ariſtocratie militaire, and they pretend, on the ſame principle, to be enfranchiſed from the law of nations.—An orator of the convention lately boaſted, that he felt himſelf infinitely ſuperior to the prejudices of Grotius, Puffendorff, and Vatel, which he calls "l'ariſtocratie diplomatique."—Such ſublime ſpirits think, becauſe they differ from the reſt of mankind, that they ſurpaſs them. Like Icarus, they attempt to fly, and are perpetually ſtruggling in the mire.—Plain common ſenſe haſ long pointed out a rule of action, from which all deviation is fatal, both to nations and individuals. England, as well as France, haſ furniſhed its examples; and the annals of genius in all countries are replete with the miſeries of eccentricity.—Whoever has followed the courſe of the French revolution, will, I believe, be convinced, that the greateſt evils attending on it have been occaſioned by an affected contempt for received maxims. A common banditti, acting only from the deſire of plunder, or men, erring only through ignorance, could not have ſubjugated an whole people, had they not been aſſiſted by narrow-minded philoſophers, who were eager to ſacrifice their country to the vanity of making experiments, and were little ſolicitous whether their ſyſtems were good or bad, provided they were celebrated as the authors of them. Yet, where are they now? Wandering, proſcribed, and trembling at the fate of their followers and accomplices.—The Briſſotins, ſacrificed by a party even worſe than themſelves, have died without exciting either pity or admiration. Their fall was conſidered as the natural conſequence of their exaltation, and the courage with which they met death obtained no tribute but a cold and ſimple comment, undiſtinguiſhed from the news of the day, and ending with it.
Laſt night, after we had been aſleep about an hour, (for habit, that "lulls the wet ſea-boy on the high and giddy maſt," has reconciled us to ſleep even here,) we were alarmed by the trampling of feet, and ſudden unlocking of our door. Our apprehenſions gave us no time for conjecture —in a moment an ill-looking fellow entered the room with a lantern, two ſoldiers holding drawn ſwords, and a large dog! The whole company walked as it were proceſſionally to the end of the apartment, and, after obſerving in ſilence the beds on each ſide, left us. It would not be eaſy to deſcribe what we ſuffered at this moment: for my own part, I thought only of the maſſacres of September, and the frequent propoſals at the Jacobins and the Convention for diſpatching the "gens ſuſpect," and really concluded I was going to terminate my exiſtence "revolutionnairement." I do not now know the purport of theſe viſits, but I find they are not unuſual, and moſt probably intended to alarm the priſoners.
After many enquiries and meſſages, I have had the mortification of hearing that Mr. and Mrs. D____ were taken to Arras, and were there even before I left it. The letters ſent to and from the different priſons are read by ſo many people, and paſs through ſo many hands, that it is not ſurprizing we have not heard from each other. As far as I can learn, they had obtained leave, after their firſt arreſt, to remove to a houſe in the vicinity of Dourlens for a few days, on account of Mrs. D____'ſ health, which had ſuffered by paſſing the ſummer in the town, and that at the taking of Toulon they were again arreſted while on a viſit, and conveyed to a Maiſon d'Arret at Arras. I am the more anxious for them, as it ſeems they were unprepared for ſuch an event; and as the ſeals were put upon their effects, I fear they muſt be in want of every thing. I might, perhaps, have ſucceeded in getting them removed here, but Fleury'ſ Arras friend, it ſeems, did not think, when the Convention had aboliſhed every other part of Chriſtianity, that they intended ſtill to exact a partial obſervance of the eighth article of the decalogue; and having, in the ſenſe of Antient Piſtol, "conveyed" a little too notoriouſly, Le Bon has, by way of ſecuring him from notice or purſuit, ſent him to the frontiers in the capacity of Commiſſary.
The priſon, conſidering how many French inhabitants it contains, iſ tolerably quiet—to ſay the truth, we are not very ſociable, and ſtill leſs gay. Common intereſt eſtabliſhes a ſort of intimacy between thoſe of the ſame apartment; but the reſt of the houſe paſs each other, without farther intercourſe than ſilent though ſignificant civility. Sometimeſ you ſee a pair of unfortunate ariſtocrates talking politics at the end of a paſſage, or on a landing-place; and here and there a bevy of females, en deſhabille, recounting altogether the ſubject of their arreſt. One'ſ ear occaſionally catches a few half-ſuppreſſed notes of a proſcribed aire, but the unhallowed ſounds of the Carmagnole and Marſeillois are never heard, and would be thought more diſſonant here than the war-whoop. In fact, the only appearance of gaiety is among the ideots and lunatics. —"Je m'ennuye furieuſement," is the general exclamation.—An Engliſhman confined at the Bicetre would expreſs himſelf more forcibly, but, it iſ certain, the want of knowing how to employ themſelves does not form a ſmall part of the diſtreſſes of our fellow-priſoners; and when they tell us they are "ennuyes," they ſay, perhaps, nearly as much as they feel— for, as far as I can obſerve, the loſs of liberty has not the ſame effect on a Frenchman as an Engliſhman. Whether this ariſes from political cauſes, or the natural indifference of the French character, I am not qualified to determine; probably from both: yet when I obſerve thiſ facility of mind general, and by no means peculiar to the higher claſſes, I cannot myſelf but be of opinion, that it is more an effect of their original diſpoſition than of their form of government; for though in England we were accuſtomed from our childhood to conſider every man in France as liable to wake and find himſelf in the Baſtille, or at Mont St. Michel, this formidable deſpotiſm exiſted more in theory than in practice; and if courtiers and men of letters were intimidated by it, the maſs of the people troubled themſelves very little about Lettres de Cachet. The revenge or ſuſpicion of Miniſters might ſometimes purſue thoſe who aimed at their power, or aſſailed their reputation; but the leſſer gentry, the merchants, or the ſhopkeepers, were very ſeldom victims of arbitrary impriſonment—and I believe, amongſt the evils which it was the object of the revolution to redreſs, this (except on the principle) was far from being of the firſt magnitude. I am not likely, under my preſent circumſtances, to be an advocate for the deſpotiſm of any form of government; and I only give it as a matter of opinion, that the civil liberty of the French was not ſo often and generally violated,* as to influence their character in ſuch a degree as to render them inſenſible of its loſs. At any rate, we muſt rank it among the bizarrerieſ [Unaccountable whimſical events.] of this world, that the French ſhould have been prepared, by the theory of oppreſſion under their old ſyſtem, for enduring the practice of it under the new one; and that what during the monarchy was only poſſible to a few, is, under the republic, almoſt certain to all.
* I remember in 1789, after the deſtruction of the Baſtille, our compaſſionate countrymen were taught to believe that this tremendouſ priſon was peopled with victims, and that even the dungeons were inhabited; yet the truth is, though it would not have told ſo pathetically, or have produced ſo much theatrical effect, there were only ſeven perſons confined in the whole building, and certainly not one in the dungeons.
We have again, as you will perceive, changed our abode, and that too without expecting, and almoſt without deſiring it. In my moments of ſullenneſs and deſpondency, I was not very ſolicitous about the modifications of our confinement, and little diſpoſed to be better ſatiſfied with one priſon than another: but, heroics apart, external comforts are of ſome importance, and we have, in many reſpects, gained by our removal.
Our preſent habitation is a ſpacious building, lately a convent, and though now crouded with more priſoners by two or three hundred than it will hold conveniently, yet we are better lodged than at the Bicetre, and we have alſo a large garden, good water, and, what above all iſ deſirable, the liberty of delivering our letters or meſſages ourſelveſ (in preſence of the guard) to any one who will venture to approach us. Mad. de ____ and myſelf have a ſmall cell, where we have juſt room to place our beds, but we have no fire-place, and the maids are obliged to ſleep in an adjoining paſſage.
A few evenings ago, while we were at the Bicetre, we were ſuddenly informed by the keeper that Dumont had ſent ſome ſoldiers with an order to convey us that night to the Providence. We were at firſt rather ſurprized than pleaſed, and reluctantly gathered our baggage together with as much expedition as we could, while the men who were to eſcort uſ were exclaiming "a la Francaiſe" at the trifling delay this occaſioned. When we had paſſed the gate, we found Fleury, with ſome porters, ready to receive our beds, and overjoyed at having procured us a more decent priſon, for, it ſeems, he could by no means reconcile himſelf to the name of Bicetre. We had about half a mile to walk, and on the road he contrived to acquaint us with the means by which he had ſolicited thiſ favour of Dumont. After adviſing with all Mad. de ____'s friends who were yet at liberty, and finding no one willing to make an effort in her behalf, for fear of involving themſelves, he diſcovered an old acquaintance in the "femme de chambre" of one of Fleury's miſtreſſes.— This, for one of Fleury's ſagacity, was a ſpring to have ſet the whole Convention in a ferment; and in a few days he profited ſo well by thiſ female patronage, as to obtain an order for tranſferring us hither. On our arrival, we were informed, as uſual, that the houſe was already full, and that there was no poſſibility of admitting us. We however, ſet up all night in the keeper's room with ſome other people newly arrived like ourſelves, and in the morning, after a little diſputing and a pretty general derangement of the more ancient inhabitants, we were "nichees," as I have deſcribed to you.
We have not yet quitted our room much, but I obſerve that every one appears more chearful, and more ſtudied in their toilette, than at the Bicetre, and I am willing to infer from thence that confinement here iſ leſs inſupportable.—I have been employed two days in enlarging the noteſ I had made in our laſt priſon, and in making them more legible, for I ventured no farther than juſt to ſcribble with a pencil in a kind of ſhort-hand of my own invention, and not even that without a variety of precautions. I ſhall be here leſs liable either to ſurprize or obſervation, and as ſoon as I have ſecured what I have already noted, (which I intend to do to-night,) I ſhall continue my remarks in the uſual form. You will find even more than my cuſtomary incorrectneſs and want of method ſince we left Peronne; but I ſhall not allow your competency aſ a critic, until you have been a priſoner in the hands of French republicans.
It will not be improper to notice to you a very ingenious decree of Gaſton, (a member of the Convention,) who lately propoſed to embark all the Engliſh now in France at Breſt, and then to ſink the ſhips.—Perhapſ the Committee of Public Welfare are now in a ſort of benevolent indeciſion, whether this, or Collot d'Herboiſ' gunpowder ſcheme, ſhall have the preference. Legendre's iron cage and ſimple hanging will, doubtleſs, be rejected, as too ſlow and formal. The mode of the day iſ "les grandes meſures." If I be not ſeriouſly alarmed at theſe propoſitions, it is not that life is indifferent to me, or that I think the government too humane to adopt them. My tranquillity ariſes from reflecting that ſuch meaſures would be of no political uſe, and that we ſhall moſt likely be ſoon forgotten in the multitude of more important concerns. Thoſe, however, whom I endeavour to conſole by this reaſoning, tell me it is nothing leſs than infallible, that the inutility of a crime is here no ſecurity againſt its perpetration, and that any project which tends to evil will ſooner be remembered than one of humanity or juſtice.
[End of Vol. I. The Printed Books]
"All places that are viſited by the eye of Heaven, are to the wiſe man happy havens." If Shakſpeare's philoſophy be orthodox, the French have, it muſt be confeſſed, many claims to the reputation of a wiſe people; and though you know I always diſputed their pretenſions to general gaiety, yet I acknowledge that miſfortune does not deprive them of the ſhare they poſſeſs, and, if one may judge by appearances, they have at leaſt the habit, more than any other nation, of finding content under ſituationſ with which it ſhould ſeem incompatible. We are here between ſix and ſeven hundred, of all ages and of all ranks, taken from our homes, and from all that uſually makes the comfort of life, and crowded together under many of the inflictions that conſtitute its miſery; yet, in the midſt of all this, we fiddle, dreſs, rhyme, and viſit as ceremoniouſly aſ though we had nothing to diſturb us. Our beaux, after being correctly frizz'd and powdered behind ſome door, compliment the belle juſt eſcaped from a toilet, performed amidſt the apparatus of the kitchen; three or four beds are piled one upon another to make room for as many card-tables; and the wits of the priſon, who are all the morning employed in writing doleful placets to obtain their liberty, in the evening celebrate the loſs of it in bout-rimees and acroſtics.
I ſaw an aſs at the Corps de Garde this morning laden with violins and muſic, and a female priſoner ſeldom arrives without her complement of bandboxes.—Embarraſſed, ſtifled as we are by our numbers, it does not prevent a daily importation of lap-dogs, who form as conſequential a part of the community in a priſon, as in the moſt ſuperb hotel. The faithful valet, who has followed the fortunes of his maſter, does not ſo much ſhare his diſtreſſes as contribute to his pleaſure by adorning hiſ perſon, or, rather, his head, for, excepting the article of hair-dreſſing, the beaux here are not elaborate. In ſhort, there is an indifference, a frivolity, in the French character, which, in circumſtances like the preſent, appears unaccountable. But man is not always conſiſtent with himſelf, and there are occaſions in which the French are nothing leſs than philoſophers. Under all theſe externals of levity, they are a very prudent people, and though they ſeem to bear with infinite fortitude many of the evils of life, there are ſome in which their ſenſibility is not to be queſtioned. At the death of a relation, or the loſs of liberty, I have obſerved that a few hourſ ſuffice, pour prendre ſon parti; [To make up his mind.] but on any occaſion where his fortune has ſuffered, the livelieſt Frenchman is au deſeſpoir for whole days. Whenever any thing is to be loſt or gained, all his characteriſtic indifference vaniſhes, and his attention becomeſ mentally concentrated, without diſſipating the habitual ſmile of hiſ countenance. He may ſometimes be deceived through deficiency of judgment, but I believe not often by unguardedneſs; and, in a matter of intereſt, a petit maitre of five-and-twenty might tout en badinage [All in the way of pleaſantry.] maintain his ground againſt a whole ſynagogue.—This diſpoſition is not remarkable only in affairs that may be ſuppoſed to require it, but extends to the minuteſt objects; and the ſame oeconomy which watches over the maſs of a Frenchman's eſtate, guards with equal ſolicitude the menu property of a log of wood, or a hen's neſt.
There is at this moment a general ſcarcity of proviſions, and we who are confined are, of courſe, particularly inconvenienced by it; we do not even get bread that is eatable, and it is curious to obſerve with what circumſpection every one talks of his reſources. The poſſeſſor of a few eggs takes care not to expoſe them to the eye of his neighbour; and a ſlice of white bread is a donation of ſo much conſequence, that thoſe who procure any for themſelves do not often put their friends to the pain either of accepting or refuſing it.
Mad. de ____ has been unwell for ſome days, and I could not help giving a hint to a relation of her's whom we found here, and who has frequent ſupplies of bread from the country, that the bread we eat was peculiarly inimical to her; but I gained only a look of repulſive apprehenſion, and a cold remark that it was very difficult to get good bread—"et que c'etoit bien malheureux." [And that it certainly was very unfortunate.] I own this kind of ſelfiſhneſs is increaſed by a ſituation where our wants are numerous, and our enjoyments few; and the great diſtinctions of meum and tuum, which at all times have occaſioned ſo much bad fellowſhip in the world, are here perhaps more rigidly obſerved than any where elſe; yet, in my opinion, a cloſe-hearted conſideration has always formed an eſſential and a predominant quality in the French character.
People here do not ruin themſelves, as with us, by hoſpitality; and examples of that thoughtleſs profuſion which we cenſure and regret, without being able entirely to condemn, are very rare indeed. In France it is not uncommon to ſee a man apparently diſſipated in his conduct, and licentious in his morals, yet regular, even to parſimony, in hiſ pecuniary concerns.—He oeconomizes with his vices, and indulges in all the exceſſes of faſhionable life, with the ſame ſyſtem of order that accumulates the fortune of a Dutch miſer. Lord Cheſterfield waſ doubtleſs ſatiſfied, that while his ſon remained in France, his preceptſ would have all the benefit of living illuſtration; yet it is not certain that this cautious and reflecting licentiouſneſs has any merit over the more imprudent irregularity of an Engliſh ſpendthrift: the one is, however, likely to be more durable than the other; and, in fact, the character of an old libertine is more frequent in France than in England.
If oeconomy preſide even over the vices of the rich and faſhionable, you may conclude that the habits of the middling ranks of people of ſmall fortunes are ſtill more ſcrupulouſly ſubjected to its influence. A French menage [Houſehold.] is a practical treatiſe on the art of ſaving—a ſpirit of oeconomy pervades and directs every part of it, and that ſo uniformly, ſo generally, and ſo conſiſtently, as not to make the ſame impreſſion on a ſtranger as would a ſingle inſtance where the whole was not conducted on the ſame principle. A traveller is not ſo forcibly ſtricken by this part of the French character, becauſe it is more real than apparent, and does not ſeem the effect of reaſoning or effort, which is never conſequential, but rather that of inclination and the natural courſe of things.
A degree of parſimony, which an Engliſhman, who does not affect the reputation of a Codrus, could not acquire without many ſelf-combats, appears in a Frenchman a matter of preference and convenience, and till one has lived long and familiarly in the country, one is apt to miſtake principles for cuſtoms, and character for manners, and to attribute many things to local which have their real ſource in moral cauſes.—The traveller who ſees nothing but gay furniture, and gay clothes, and partakes on invitation of ſplendid repaſts, returns to England the enamoured panegyriſt of French hoſpitality.—On a longer reſidence and more domeſtic intercourſe, all this is diſcoverable to be merely the ſacrifice of parſimony to vanity—the ſolid comforts of life are unknown, and hoſpitality ſeldom extends beyond an occaſional and oſtentatiouſ reception. The gilding, painting, glaſſes, and ſilk hangings of a French apartment, are only a gay diſguiſe; and a houſe, which to the eye may be attractive even to ſplendour, often has not one room that an Engliſhman would find tolerably convenient. Every thing intended for uſe rather than ſhew is ſcanty and ſordid—all is beau, magnifique, gentil, or ſuperb, [Fine magnificent, genteel, or ſuperb.] and nothing comfortable. The French have not the word, or its ſynonime, in their language.
In France, clothes are almoſt as durable as furniture, and the gaiety which twenty or thirty years ago we were complaiſant enough to admire iſ far from being expenſive. People are not more than five or ſix hours a day in their gala habits, and the whole of this period is judiciouſly choſen between the hours of repaſt, ſo that no riſk in incurred by accidents at table. Then the caprices of faſhion, which in England are ſo various and deſpotic, have here a more limited influence: the form of a dreſs changes as long as the material is convertible, and when it haſ outlaſted the poſſibility of adaptation to a reigning mode, it is not on that account rejected, but is generally worn in ſome way or other till baniſhed by the more rational motive of its decay. All the expences of tea-viſits, breakfaſt-loungings, and chance-dinners, are avoided—an evening viſit is paſſed entirely at cards, a breakfaſt in form even for the family is unuſual, and there are very few houſes where you could dine without being previouſly engaged. I am, indeed, certain, that (unleſs in large eſtabliſhments) the calculation for diurnal ſupply is ſo exact, that the intruſion of a ſtranger would be felt by the whole family. I muſt, however, do them the juſtice to ſay, that on ſuch occaſions, and where they find the thing to be inevitable, they put the beſt face poſſible on it, and the gueſt is entertained, if not plentifully, and with a very ſincere welcome, at leaſt with ſmiles and compliments. The French, indeed, allow, that they live leſs hoſpitably than the Engliſh: but then they ſay they are not ſo rich; and it is true, property is not ſo general, nor ſo much diffuſed, as with us. This is, however, only relative, and you will not ſuſpect me of being ſo uncandid as to make compariſons without allowing for every difference which is the effect of neceſſity. All my remarks of this kind are made after an unprejudiced compariſon of the people of the ſame rank or fortune in the two countries;—yet even the moſt liberal examination muſt end by concluding, that the oeconomy of the French too nearly approaches to meanneſs, and that their civility is oſtentatious, perhaps often either intereſted, or even verbal.
You already exclaim, why, in the year 1793, you are characterizing a nation in the ſtyle of Salmon! and implying a panegyric on the moral of the School for Scandal! I plead to the firſt part of the charge, and ſhall hereafter defend my opinion againſt the more poliſhed writers who have ſucceeded Salmon. For the moral of the School for Scandal, I have always conſidered it as the ſeal of humanity on a comedy which would otherwiſe be perfection.
It is not the oeconomy of the French that I am cenſuring, but their vanity, which, engroſſing all their means of expence, prefers ſhow to accommodation, and the parade of a ſumptuous repaſt three or four times a year to a plainer but more frequent hoſpitality.—I am far from being the advocate of extravagance, or the enemy of domeſtic order; and the liberality which is circumſcribed only by prudence ſhall not find in me a cenſurer.
My ideas on the French character and manner of living may not be unuſeful to ſuch of my countrymen as come to France with the project of retrieving their affairs; for it is very neceſſary they ſhould be informed, that it is not ſo much the difference in the price of things, which makes a reſidence here oeconomical, as a conformity to the habits of the country; and if they were not deterred by a falſe ſhame from a temporary adoption of the ſame ſyſtem in England, their object might often be obtained without leaving it. For this reaſon it may be remarked, that the Engliſh who bring Engliſh ſervants, and perſiſt in their Engliſh mode of living, do not often derive very ſolid advantages from their exile, and their abode in France is rather a retreat from their creditors than the meanſ of paying their debts.
Adieu.—You will not be ſorry that I have been able for a moment to forget our perſonal ſufferings, and the miſerable politics of the country. The details of the former are not pleaſant, and the latter grow every day more inexplicable.