Paris.
I am uneasy when I hear people assert, that mankind always act from motives of self-interest. It creates a suspicion that those who maintain this system, judge of others by their own feelings. This conclusion, however, may be as erroneous as the general assertion; for I have heard it maintained (perhaps from affectation) by very disinterested people, who, when pushed, could not support their argument without perverting the received meaning of language.—Those who perform generous or apparently disinterested actions, say they, are prompted by selfish motives—by the pleasure which they themselves feel.—There are people who have this feeling so strong, that they cannot pass a miserable object without endeavouring to assist him.—Such people really relieve themselves when they relieve the wretched.
All this is very true: but is it not a strange assertion, that people are not benevolent, because they cannot be otherwise?
Two men are standing near a fruit-shop in St. James’s street. There are some pine-apples within the window, and a poor woman, with an infant crying at her empty breast, without. One of the gentlemen walks in, pays a guinea for a pine-apple, which he calmly devours; while the woman implores him for a penny, to buy her a morsel of bread—and implores in vain: not that this fine gentleman values a penny; but to put his hand in his pocket would give him some trouble;—the distress of the woman gives him none. The other man happens to have a guinea in his pocket also; he gives it to the woman, walks home, and dines on beef-steaks, with his wife and children.
Without doing injustice to the taste of the former, we may believe, that the latter received the greater gratification for his guinea.—You will never convince me, however, that his motive in bestowing it was as selfish as the other’s.
Some few days after the adventure I mentioned in my last letter, I met F—— and B—— at the opera. They had become acquainted with each other at my lodgings two days before, according to B——’s desire.—It gave me pleasure to see them on so good a footing.
F—— invited us to go home and sit an hour with him before we went to bed;—to which we assented.
The Marquis then told us, we should have the pleasure of seeing Fanchon, in her best gown, and Dubois, with his new leg—for he had ordered his valet to invite them, with two or three of his companions, to a little supper.
While the Marquis was speaking, his coach drove up to the door of the opera—where a well-known lady was at that moment waiting for her carriage.
B—— seemed to recollect himself of a sudden, saying, he must be excused from going with us, having an affair of some importance to transact at home.
The Marquis smiled—shook B—— by the hand—saying, c’est apparemment quelque affaire qui regarde la constitution, vivent les Anglois pour l’amour patriotique.
When we arrived at the Marquis’s, the servants and their guests were assembled in the little garden behind the hotel, and dancing, by moon-light, to Dubois’s music.
He and Fanchon were invited to a glass of wine in the Marquis’s parlour.—The poor fellow’s heart swelled at the sight of his benefactor.—He attempted to express his gratitude; but his voice failed, and he could not articulate a word.
Vous n’avez pas à faire a des ingrats, Monsieur le Colonel, said Fanchon. My husband, continued she, is more affected with your goodness, that he was by the loss of his leg, or the cruelty of my relations.—She then, in a serious manner, with the voice of gratitude, and in the language of Nature, expressed her own and her husband’s obligations to the Marquis; and, amongst others, she alluded to twenty louis which her husband had received de sa part that very afternoon.—You intend to make a saint of a sinner, my dear, said the Marquis, and to succeed the better, you invent false miracles. I know nothing of the twenty louis you mention.—But I know a great deal; for here they are in my pocket, says Dubois.—The Marquis still insisted they had not come from him. The soldier then declared, that he had called about one o’clock, to pay his duty to Monsieur de F——; but not finding him at home, he was returning to his lodgings, when, in the street, he observed a gentleman looking at him with attention, who soon accosted him, demanding if his name was not Dubois? If he had not lost his leg at Corsica? and several other questions, which being answered in the affirmative, he slipped twenty louis into his hand, telling him that it would help to furnish his house.—Dubois in astonishment had exclaimed—Mon Dieu! voilà encore Monsieur de F——. Upon which the stranger had replied:—Yes, he sends you that, by me: and immediately he turned into another street, and Dubois saw no more of him.
We were all equally surprised at the singularity of this little adventure. On enquiring more particularly about the appearance of the stranger, I was convinced he could be no other than B——.
I remembered he had been affected with the story of Dubois when I told it him. You know B—— is not one of those, who allow any emotions of that nature to pass unimproved, or to evaporate in sentiment. He generally puts them to some practical use.—So having met Dubois accidentally in the street, he had made him this small present, in the manner above related; and on his understanding that Dubois and Fanchon were at F——’s, he had declined going, to avoid any explanation on the subject.
Had our friend B—— been a man of system, or much reflection, in his charity, he would have considered, that as the soldier had already been taken good care of, and was under the protection of a generous man, there was no call for his interfering in the business; and he would probably have kept his twenty guineas for some more pressing occasion.
There are men in the world (and very useful and most respectable men no doubt they are), who examine the pro’s and the con’s before they decide, upon the most indifferent occasion; who are directed in all their actions by propriety, and by the general received notions of duty. They weigh, in the nicest scales, every claim that an acquaintance, a relation, or a friend may have on them; and they endeavour to pay them on demand, as they would a bill of exchange. They calculate their income, and proportion every expence; and hearing it asserted every week from the pulpit, that there is exceeding good interest to be paid one time or other, for the money that is given to the poor, they risk a little every year upon that venture. Their passions, and their affairs are always in excellent order; they walk through life undisturbed by the misfortunes of others. And when they come to the end of their journey, they are decently interred in a church-yard.
There is another set of men, who never calculate; for they are generally guided by the heart, which never was taught arithmetic, and knows nothing of accounts. Their heads have scarcely a vote in the choice of their acquaintances; and without the consent of the heart, most certainly none in their friendships. They perform acts of benevolence, without recollecting that this is a duty, merely for the pleasure they afford; and perhaps forget them, as they do their own pleasures, when past.
As for little occasional charities, these are as natural to such characters as breathing; and they claim as little merit for the one as for the other, the whole seeming an affair of instinct rather than of reflection.
That the first of these two classes of men is the most useful in society; that their affairs will be conducted with most circumspection; that they will keep out of many scrapes and difficulties that the others may fall into; and that they are (if you insist upon it very violently) the most virtuous of the two, I shall not dispute: Yet for the soul of me I cannot help preferring the other; for almost all the friends I have ever had in my life, are of the second class.
Paris.
Considering the natural gaiety and volatility of the French nation, I have often been surprised at their fondness for tragedy, especially as their tragedies are barren of incident, full of long dialogues, and declamatory speeches;—and modelled according to the strictest code of critical legislation.
The most sprightly and fashionable people of both sexes flock to these entertainments in preference to all others, and listen with unrelaxed gravity and attention. One would imagine that such a serious, correct and uniform amusement, would be more congenial with the phlegm, and saturnine dispositions of the English, than with the gay, volatile temper of the French.
An English audience loves show, bustle and incident, in their tragedies; and have a mortal aversion to long dialogues and speeches, however fine the sentiments, and however beautiful the language may be.
In this it would seem, that the two nations had changed characters. Perhaps it would be difficult to account for it in a satisfactory manner. I shall not attempt it. A Frenchman would cut the matter short, by saying, that the Paris audience has a more correct and just taste than that of London; that the one could be amused and delighted with poetry and sentiment, while the other could not be kept awake without bustle, guards, processions, trumpets, fighting, and murder.
For my own part, I admire the French Melpomene more in the closet than on the stage. I cannot be reconciled to the French actors of tragedy. Their pompous manner of declaiming seems to me very unnatural. The strut, and superb gestures, and what they call la manière noble, of their boasted Le Kain, appear, in my eyes, a little outrè.
The justness, the dignified simplicity, the energy of Garrick’s action, have destroyed my relish for any manner different from his. That exquisite, but concealed art, that magic power, by which he could melt, freeze, terrify the soul, and command the obedient passions as he pleased, we look for in vain, upon our own, or any other stage.
What Horace said of Nature, may be applied with equal justice to that unrivalled actor:
One of the most difficult things in acting is the player’s concealing himself behind the character he assumes: The instant the spectator gets a peep of him, the whole illusion vanishes, and the pleasure is succeeded by disgust. In Oedipus, Mahomet, and Orosmane, I have always detected Le Kain; but I have seen the English Roscius represent Hamlet, Lear, Richard, without recollecting that there was such a person as David Garrick in the world.
The French tragedians are apt in my opinion to overstep the modesty of nature. Nature is not the criterion by which their merit is to be tried.—The audience measures them by a more sublime standard, and if they come not up to that, they cannot pass muster.
Natural action, and a natural elocution, they seem to think incompatible with dignity, and imagine that the hero must announce the greatness of his soul by supercilious looks, haughty gestures, and a hollow sounding voice. Such easy familiar dialogue as Hamlet holds with his old school-fellow Horatio, appears to them low, vulgar, and inconsistent with the dignity of tragedy.
But if simplicity of manners be not inconsistent in real life, with genius, and the most exalted greatness of mind, I do not see why the actor who represents a hero, should assume gestures which we have no reason to think were ever in use in any age, or among any rank of men.
Simplicity of manners, however, is so far from being inconsistent with magnanimity, that the one for the most part accompanies the other. The French have some reason to lean to this opinion; for two of the greatest men their nation ever produced were remarkable for the simplicity of their manners. Henry IV. and Maréchal Turenne were distinguished by that, as well as by their magnanimity and other heroic virtues.
How infinitely superior in real greatness and intrinsic merit, were those men to the strutting ostentatious Lewis, who was always affecting a greatness he never possessed,—till misfortune humbled his mind to the standard of humanity? Then indeed, throwing away his pageantry and bluster, he assumed true dignity, and for the first time obtained the admiration of the judicious. In the correspondence with de Torcy, Lewis’s letters, which it is now certain were written and composed by himself, prove this, and display a soundness of judgement and real greatness of mind which seldom appeared in the meridian of what they call his glory.
What Lewis was (in the height of his prosperity) to Henry in the essential qualities of a King and Hero, such is Le Kain to Garrick as an actor.
The French stage can boast at present of more than one actress who may dispute the laurel of tragedy with Mrs. Yates, or Mrs. Barry.
In comedy, the French actors excel, and can produce at all times a greater number far above mediocrity, than are to be found on the English stage.
The national character and manners of the French give them perhaps advantages in this line; and besides, they have more numerous resources to supply them with actors of every kind. In all the large trading and manufacturing towns, of which there are a great number in France, there are playhouses established. The same thing takes place in most of the frontier towns, and wherever there is a garrison of two or three regiments.
There are companies of French comedians also at the northern courts, in all the large towns of Germany, and at some of the courts of Italy. All of these are academies which educate actors for the Paris stage.
In genteel comedy particularly, I imagine the French actors excel ours. They have in general more the appearance of people of fashion.
There is not such a difference between the manners and behaviour of the people of the first rank, and those of the middle and lower ranks, in France as in England. Players therefore, who wish to catch the manners of people of high rank and fashion, do not undertake so great a task in the one country as in the other.
You very seldom meet with an English servant who could pass for a man of quality or fashion; and accordingly very few people who have been in that situation ever appear on the English stage: But there are many valets de place in Paris so very polite, so completely possessed of all the little etiquettes, fashionable phrases, and usual airs of the beau monde, that if they were set off by the ornaments of dress and equipage, they would pass in many of the courts of Europe for men of fashion, très polis,—bien aimables,—tout-à-fait comme il faut, et avec infiniment d’esprit; and could be detected only at the court of France, or by such foreigners as have had opportunities of observing, and penetration to distinguish, the genuine ease, and natural politeness, which prevail among the people of rank in this country.
In the character of a lively, petulant, genteel petit-maître of fashion, Mollé excels any actor in London.
The superiority of the French in genteel comedy is still more evident with regard to the actresses. Very few English actresses have appeared equal to the parts of Lady Betty Modish, in The Careless Husband, or of Millamant, in The Way of the World. Gross absurdity, extravagant folly and affectation are easily imitated; but the elegant coquetry, the lively, playful, agreeable affectation of these two finely imagined characters, require greater powers. I imagine, however, from the execution I have observed in similar parts, that there are several actresses on the French stage at present who could do them ample justice. Except Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Abington, I know no actress in England who could give an adequate idea of all that Congreve meant in Millamant.
It is remarkable, that the latter also excels in a character the most perfectly opposite to this, that of an ill taught, aukward, country girl. Perhaps there is no such young lady in France as Congreve’s Miss Prue: but if there were many such originals, no actress in that kingdom could give a copy more exquisite than Mrs. Abington’s.
In low comedy the French are delightful. I can form no notion of any thing superior to Preville in many of his parts.
The little French operas which are given at the Comedie Italienne are executed in a much more agreeable manner than any thing of the same kind at London. Their ballettes also are more beautiful:—There is a gentillesse and legèreté in their manner of representing these little fanciful pieces, which make our singers and dancers appear somewhat aukward and clumsy in the companion.
As for the Italian pieces, they are now performed only thrice a week, and the French seem to have lost in a great measure their relish for them. Carlin, the celebrated Harlequin, is the only support of these pieces. You are acquainted with the wonderful naïveté and comic powers of this man, which make us forget the extravagance of the Italian drama, and which can create objects of unbounded mirth, from a chaos of the most incoherent and absurd materials.
An advantageous figure, a graceful manner, a good voice, a strong memory, an accurate judgment, are all required in a player: Sensibility, and the power of expressing the emotions of the heart by the voice and features, are indispensable. It seems therefore unreasonable, not to consider that profession as creditable, in which we expect so many qualities united; while many others are thought respectable, in which we daily see people arrive at eminence without common sense.
This prejudice is still stronger in France than in England. In a company where Mons. le Kain was, mention happened to be made, that the King of France had just granted a pension to a certain superannuated actor. An officer present, fixing his eyes on Le Kain, expressed his indignation at so much being bestowed on a rascally player, while he himself had got nothing. Eh, Monsieur! retorted the actor, comptez-vous pour rien la liberté de me parler ainsi?
Geneva.
I found myself so much hurried during the last week of my stay at Paris, that it was not in my power to write to you.
Ten thousand little affairs, which might have been arranged much better, and performed with more ease, had they been transacted as they occurred, were all crowded, by the slothful demon of procrastination, into the last bustling week, and executed in an imperfect manner.
I have often admired, without being able perfectly to imitate, those who have the happy talent of intermingling business with amusement.
Pleasure and business contrast and give a relish to each other, like day and night, the constant vicissitudes of which are far more delightful than an uninterrupted half year of either would be.
To pass life in the most agreeable manner, one ought not to be so much a man of pleasure as to postpone any necessary business; nor so much a man of business as to despise elegant amusement. A proper mixture of both forms a more infallible specific against tedium and fatigue, than a constant regimen of the most pleasant of the two.
As soon as I found the D—— of H—— disposed to leave Paris, I made the necessary arrangements for our departure, and a few days after we began our journey.
Passing through Dijon, Chalons, Macon, and a country delightful to behold, but tedious to describe, we arrived on the fourth day at Lyons.
After Paris, Lyons is the most magnificent town in France, enlivened by industry, enriched by commerce, beautified by wealth, and by its situation, in the middle of a fertile country, and at the confluence of the Saone and the Rhone. The numbers of inhabitants are estimated at 200,000. The theatre is accounted the finest in France, and all the luxuries in Paris are to be found at Lyons, though not in equal perfection.
The manners and conversation of merchants and manufacturers have been generally considered as peculiar to themselves. It is very certain that there is a striking difference in these particulars between the inhabitants of all the manufacturing and commercial towns of Britain, and those of Westminster. I could not remark the same difference between the manners and address of the people of Lyons and the courtiers of Versailles itself.
There appeared to me a wonderful similitude between the two. It is probable, however, that a Frenchman would perceive a difference where I could not. A foreigner does not observe the different accents in which an Englishman, a Scotchman, and an Irishman speak English; neither perhaps does he observe any difference between the manners and address of the inhabitants of Bristol, and those of Grosvenor-square, though all these are obvious to a native of England.
After a short stay at Lyons, we proceeded to Geneva, and here we have remained these three weeks, without feeling the smallest inclination to shift the scene. That I should wish to remain here is no way surprising, but it was hardly to be expected that the D—— of H—— would have been of the same mind.—Fortunately, however, this is the case.—I know no place on the continent to which we could go with any probability of gaining by the change: The opportunities of improvement here are many, the amusements are few in number, and of a moderate kind: The hours glide along very smoothly, and though they are not always quickened by pleasure, they are unretarded by languor and unruffled by remorse.
As for myself, I have been so very often and so miserably disappointed in my hopes of happiness by change, that I shall not, without some powerful motive, incline to forego my present state of content, for the chance of more exquisite enjoyments in a different place or situation.
I have at length learnt by my own experience (for not one in twenty profits by the experience of others), that one great source of vexation proceeds from our indulging too sanguine hopes of enjoyment from the blessings we expect, and too much indifference for those we possess. We scorn a thousand sources of satisfaction which we might have had in the interim, and permit our comfort to be disturbed, and our time to pass unenjoyed, from impatience for some imagined pleasure at a distance, which we may perhaps never obtain, or which, when obtained, may change its nature, and be no longer pleasure. Young says,
The devil thus cheats men both out of the enjoyment of this life and of that which is to come, making us in the first place prefer the pleasures of this life to those of a future state, and then continually prefer future pleasures in this life to those which are present.
The sum of all these apophthegms amounts to this:—We shall certainly remain at Geneva till we become more tired of it than at present.
Geneva.
The situation of Geneva is in many respects as happy as the heart of man could desire, or his imagination conceive. The Rhone, rushing out of the noblest lake in Europe, flows through the middle of the city, which is encircled by fertile fields, cultivated by the industry, and adorned by the riches and taste, of the inhabitants.
The long ridge of mountains called Mount Jura on the one side, with the Alps, the Glaciers of Savoy, and the snowy head of Mont Blanc on the other, serve as boundaries to the most charmingly variegated landscape that ever delighted the eye.
With these advantages in point of situation, the citizens of Geneva enjoy freedom untainted by licentiousness, and security unbought by the horrors of wars.
The great number of men of letters, who either are natives of the place, or have chosen it for their residence, the decent manners, the easy circumstances, and humane dispositions of the Genevois in general, render this city and its environs a very desirable retreat for people of a philosophic turn of mind, who are contented with moderate and calm enjoyments, have no local attachments or domestic reasons for preferring another country, and who wish in a certain degree to retire from the bustle of the world, to a narrower and calmer scene, and there for the rest of their days—
As education here is equally cheap and liberal, the citizens of Geneva of both sexes are remarkably well instructed. I do not imagine that any country in the world can produce an equal number of persons (taken without election from all degrees and professions) with minds so much cultivated as the inhabitants of Geneva possess.
It is not uncommon to find mechanics in the intervals of their labour amusing themselves with the works of Locke, Montesquieu, Newton, and other productions of the same kind.
When I speak of the cheapness of a liberal education, I mean for the natives and citizens only; for strangers now find every thing dear at Geneva. Wherever Englishmen resort, this is the case. If they do not find things dear, they soon make them so.
The democratical nature of their government inspires every citizen with an idea of his own importance: He perceives that no man in the republic can insult, or even neglect him, with impunity.
It is an excellent circumstance in any government, when the most powerful man in the state has something to fear from the most feeble. This is the case here: The meanest citizen of Geneva is possessed of certain rights, which render him an object deserving the attention of the greatest. Besides, a consciousness of this makes him respect himself; a sentiment, which, within proper bounds, has a tendency to render a man respectable to others.
The general character of human nature forbids us to expect that men will always act from motives of public spirit, without an eye to private interest. The best form of government, therefore, is that in which the interest of individuals is most intimately blended with the public good.—This may be more perfectly accomplished in a small republic than in a great monarchy.—In the first, men of genius and virtue are discovered and called to offices of trust by the impartial admiration of their fellow-citizens—in the other, the highest places are disposed of by the caprice of the prince, or of his mistress, or of those courtiers, male or female, who are nearest his person, watch the variations of his humour, and know how to seize the smiling moments, and turn them to their own advantage or that of their dependents. Montesquieu says, that a sense of honour produces the same effects in a monarchy, that public spirit or patriotism does in a republic: It must be remembered, however, that the first, according to the modern acceptation of the word, is generally confined to the nobility and gentry; whereas public spirit is a more universal principle, and spreads through all the members of the commonwealth.
As far as I can judge, a spirit of independency and freedom, tempered by sentiments of decency and the love of order, influence, in a most remarkable manner, the minds of the subjects of this happy republic.
Before I knew them, I had formed an opinion, that the people of this place were fanatical, gloomy-minded, and unsociable as the puritans in England, and the presbyterians in Scotland were, during the civil wars, and the reigns of Charles II. and his brother. In this, however, I find I had conceived a very erroneous notion.
There is not, I may venture to assert, a city in Europe where the minds of the people are less under the influence of superstition or fanatical enthusiasm than at Geneva. Servetus, were he now alive, would not run the smallest risk of persecution. The present clergy have, I am persuaded, as little the inclination as the power of molesting any person for speculative opinions. Should the Pope himself chuse this city for a retreat, it would be his own fault if he did not live in as much security as at the Vatican.
The clergy of Geneva in general are men of sense, learning, and moderation, impressing upon the minds of their hearers the tenets of Christianity with all the graces of pulpit eloquence, and illustrating the efficacy of the doctrine by their conduct in life.
The people of every station in this place attend sermons and the public worship with remarkable punctuality. The Sunday is honoured with the most respectful decorum during the hours of divine service; but as soon as that is over, all the usual amusements commence.
The public walks are crowded by all degrees of people in their best dresses.—The different societies, and what they call circles, assemble in the houses and gardens of individuals.—They play at cards and at bowls, and have parties upon the lake with music.
There is one custom universal here, and, as far as I know, peculiar to this place: The parents form societies for their children at a very early period of their lives. These societies consist of ten, a dozen, or more children of the same sex, and nearly of the same age and situation in life. They assemble once a week in the houses of the different parents, who entertain the company by turns with tea, coffee, biscuits and fruit; and then leave the young assembly to the freedom of their own conversation.
This connection is strictly kept up through life, whatever alterations may take place in the situations or circumstances of the individuals. And although they should afterwards form new or preferable intimacies, they never entirely abandon this society; but to the latest period of their lives continue to pass a few evenings every year with the companions of their youth and their earliest friends.
The richer class of the citizens have country-houses adjacent to the town, where they pass one half of the year. These houses are all of them neat, and some of them splendid. One piece of magnificence they possess in greater perfection than the most superb villa of the greatest lord in any other part of the world can boast, I mean the prospect which almost all of them command.—The gardens and vineyards of the republic,—the Païs de Vaux;—Geneva with its lake;—innumerable country-seats;—castles, and little towns around the lake;—the vallies of Savoy, and the loftiest mountains of the Alps, all within one sweep of the eye.
Those whose fortunes or employments do not permit them to pass the summer in the country, make frequent parties of pleasure upon the lake, and dine and spend the evening at some of the villages in the environs, where they amuse themselves with music and dancing.
Sometimes they form themselves into circles consisting of forty or fifty persons, and purchase or hire a house and garden near the town, where they assemble every afternoon during the summer, drink coffee, lemonade, and other refreshing liquors; and amuse themselves with cards, conversation, and playing at bowls; a game very different from that which goes by the same name in England; for here, instead of a smooth level green, they often chuse the roughest and most unequal piece of ground. The player, instead of rolling the bowl, throws it in such a manner, that it rests in the place where it first touches the ground; and if that be a fortunate situation, the next player pitches his bowl directly on his adversary’s, so as to make that spring away, while his own fixes itself in the spot from which the other has been dislodged.—Some of the citizens are astonishingly dexterous at this game, which is more complicated and interesting than the English manner of playing.
They generally continue these circles till the dusk of the evening, and the sound of the drum from the ramparts call them to the town; and at that time the gates are shut, after which no person can enter or go out, the officer of the guard not having the power to open them, without an order from the Syndics, which is not to be obtained but on some great emergency.
Geneva.
The mildness of the climate, the sublime beauties of the country, and the agreeable manners of the inhabitants, are not, in my opinion, the greatest attractions of this place.
Upon the same hill, in the neighbourhood of Geneva, three English families at present reside, whose society would render any country agreeable.
The house of Mr. N—— is a temple of hospitality, good humour, and friendship.
Near to him lives your acquaintance Mr. U——. He perfectly answers your description, lively, sensible, and obliging; and, I imagine, happier than ever you saw him, having since that time drawn a great prize in the matrimonial lottery.
Their nearest neighbours are the family of Mr. L——. This gentleman, his lady and children, form one of the most pleasing pictures of domestic felicity I ever beheld. He himself is a man of refined taste, a benevolent mind, and elegant manners.
These three families, who live in the greatest cordiality with the citizens of Geneva, their own countrymen, and one another, render the hill of Cologny the most delightful place perhaps at this moment in the world.
The English gentlemen, who reside in the town, often resort hither, and mix with parties of the best company of Geneva.
I am told, that our young countrymen never were on so friendly and sociable a footing with the citizens of this republic as at present, owing in a great degree to the conciliatory manners of these three families, and to the great popularity of an English nobleman, who has lived with his lady and son in this state for several years.
I formerly mentioned, that all who live in town, must return from their visits in the country at sun-set, otherwise they are certain of being shut out;—the Genevois being wonderfully jealous of the external, as well as the internal enemies of their independency. This jealousy has been transmitted from one generation to another, ever since the attempt made by the Duke of Savoy, in the year 1602, to seize upon the town.
He marched an army, in the middle of a dark night, in the time of peace, to the gates, applied scaling ladders to the ramparts and walls, and having surprised the centinels, several hundreds of the Savoyard soldiers had actually got into the town, and the rest were following, when they were at length discovered by a woman, who gave the alarm.
The Genevois started from their sleep, seized the readiest arms they could find, attacked the assailants with spirit and energy, killed numbers in the street, drove others out of the gate, or tumbled them over the ramparts, and the few who were taken prisoners, they beheaded next morning, without further process or ceremony.
The Genevois annually distinguish the day on which this memorable exploit was performed, as a day of public thanksgiving and rejoicing.
It is called le jour de l’Escalade. There is divine worship in all the churches.—The clergymen, on this occasion, after sermon, recapitulate all the circumstances of this interesting event; put the audience in mind of the gratitude they owe to Divine Providence, and to the valour of their ancestors, which saved them in so remarkable a manner from civil and religious bondage; enumerate the peculiar blessings which they enjoy; and exhort them, in the most pathetic strain, to watch over their liberties, remain steady in their religion, and transmit these, and all their other advantages, unimpaired to their posterity.
The evening of the jour de l’Escalade is spent in visiting, feasting, dancing, and all kinds of diversions; for the Genevois seldom venture on great festivity, till they have previously performed their religious duties—In this, observing the maxim of the Psalmist,—to join trembling with their mirth.
The State keeps in pay a garrison of six hundred mercenaries, who mount guard and do duty every day. But they do not trust the safety of the republic to these alone. All citizens of Geneva are soldiers. They are exercised several hours, daily, for two months, every summer; during which time they wear their uniforms, and at the end of that period are reviewed by the Syndics.
As they receive no pay, and as the officers are their fellow-citizens, it cannot be imagined that these troops will perform the manual exercise and military evolutions, with the exactness of soldiers who have no other occupation, and who are under all the rigour of military discipline.
Nevertheless they make a very respectable figure in the eyes even of disinterested spectators; who are, however, but few in number, the greater part consisting of their own parents, wives and children. So, I dare swear, there are no troops in the world, who, at a review, are beheld with more approbation than those of Geneva.
Even a stranger of a moderate share of sensibility, who recollects the connection between the troops and the beholders, who observes the anxiety, the tenderness, the exultation, and various movements of the heart, which appear in the countenances of the spectators, will find it difficult to remain unconcerned:—But sympathising with all around him, he will naturally yield to the pleasing emotions, and at length behold the militia of Geneva with the eyes of a citizen of the republic.
Geneva, like all free states, is exposed to party-rage, and the public harmony is frequently interrupted by political squabbles. Without entering into a detail of the particular disputes which agitate them at present, I shall tell you in general, that one part of the citizens are accused of a design of throwing all the power into the hands of a few families, and of establishing a complete aristocracy. The other opposes every measure which is supposed to have that tendency, and by their adversaries are accused of seditious designs.
It is difficult for strangers who reside here any considerable time, to observe a strict neutrality. The English in particular are exceedingly disposed to take part with one side or other; and as the government has not hitherto attempted to bribe them, they generally attach themselves to the opposition.
Walking one afternoon with a young nobleman, who, to a strong taste for natural philosophy, unites the most passionate zeal for civil liberty, we passed near the garden, in which one of those circles which support the pretensions of the magistracy assemble. I proposed joining them. No, said my Lord, with indignation; I will not go for a moment into such a society: I consider these men as the enemies of their country, and that place as a focus for consuming freedom.
Among the citizens themselves, political altercations are carried on with great fire and spirit. A very worthy old gentleman, in whose house I have been often entertained with great hospitality, declaiming warmly against certain measures of the council, asserted, that all those who had promoted them deserved death; and if it depended on him, they should all be hanged, without loss of time. His brother, who was in that predicament, interrupted him, and said, with a tone of voice which seemed to beg for mercy, Good God! brother! surely you would not push your resentment so far: you would not actually hang them? Oui assurément, replied the patriot, with a determined countenance, et vous, mon très cher frère, vous seriez le premier pendu pour montrer mon impartialité.
Geneva.
Although this republic has long continued in a profound peace, and there is no great probability of its being soon engaged in bloody conflict, yet the citizens of Geneva are not the less fond of the pomp of war.
This appears in what they call their military feasts, which are their most favourite amusements, and which they take every opportunity of enjoying.
I was present lately at a very grand entertainment of this kind, which was given by the King of the Arquebusiers upon his accession to the royal dignity.
This envied rank is neither transmitted by hereditary right, nor obtained by election; but gained by skill and real merit.
A war with this state, like the war of Troy, must necessarily consist of a siege. The skilful use of the cannon and arquebuse is therefore thought to be of the greatest importance. During several months every year, a considerable number of the citizens are almost constantly employed in firing at a mark, which is placed at a proper distance.
Any citizen has a right, at a small expence, to make trial of his skill in this way; and after a due number of trials, the most expert marksman is declared King.
There has not been a coronation of this kind these ten years, his late Majesty having kept peaceable possession of the throne during that period. But this summer, Mr. Moses Maudrier was found to excel in skill every competitor; and was raised to the throne by the unanimous voice of the judges.
He was attended to his own house from the field of contest by the Syndics, amidst the acclamations of the people. Some time after this, on the day of his feast, a camp was formed on a plain, without the gates of the city.
Here the whole forces of the republic, both horse and foot, were assembled, and divided into two distinct armies. They were to perform a battle in honour of his Majesty, all the combatants having previously studied their parts.
This very ingenious, warlike drama had been composed by one of the reverend ministers, who is said to possess a very extensive military genius.
That the ladies and people of distinction, who were not to be actually engaged, might view the action with the greater ease and safety, a large amphitheatre of seats was prepared for them, at a convenient distance from the field of battle.
Every thing being in readiness, the Syndics, the Council, strangers of distinction, and the relations and favourites of the King, assembled at his Majesty’s palace, which is a little snug house, situated in a narrow lane in the lower part of the city. From the palace, the procession set out in the following order:
His Majesty walked first, supported by the two eldest Syndics.
In the next rank was the Duke of H——, with the youngest.
After these, walked Lord St——pe, the Prince Gallitzen,—Mr. Cl——ve, son to Lord Cl——ve; Mr. Gr——lle, son to the late Minister; Mr. St. L——, and many other English gentlemen, who had been invited to the feast.
Next to them came the Council of twenty-five; and the procession was closed by the King’s particular friends and relations.
In this order they marched through the city, preceded by a band of music, who played, as you may believe, the most martial tunes they possibly could think of.
When this company came to the field where the troops were drawn up, they were saluted by the officers; and having made a complete circuit of both armies, the King and all his attendants took their seats at the amphitheatre, which had been prepared for that purpose.
The impatience of the troops had been very visible for some time. When the King was seated, their ardour could be no longer restrained. They called loudly to their officers to lead them to glory.—The signal was given.—They advanced to the attack in the most undaunted manner.—Conscious that they fought under the eyes of their King, the Syndics, of their wives, children, mothers and grandmothers, they disdained the thoughts of retreat.—They stood undisturbed by the thickest fire. They smiled at the roaring of the cannon, and like the horse in Job, they cried among the trumpets, ha, ha!
The ingenious author of the battle had taken care to diversify it with several entertaining incidents.
An ambuscade was placed by one of the armies, behind some trees, to surprise the enemy.—This succeeded to a miracle, although the ambuscade was posted in the sight of both armies, and all the spectators.
A convoy with provisions, advancing towards one of the armies, was attacked by a detachment from the other; and after a smart skirmish, one half of the waggons were carried away by the assailants:—The other remained with the troops for whom they seemed to have been originally intended.
A wooden bridge was briskly attacked, and as resolutely defended; but at length was trod to pieces by both armies; for, in the fury of the fight, the combatants forgot whether this poor bridge was their friend or their foe. By what means it got into the midst of the battle, I never could conceive; for there was neither river, brook, nor ditch in the whole field.
The cavalry on both sides performed wonders.—It was difficult to determine which of the generals distinguished himself most. They were both dressed in clothes exuberantly covered with lace; for the sumptuary laws were suspended for this day, that the battle might be as magnificent as possible.
As neither of these gallant commanders would consent to the being defeated, the reverend author of the engagement could not make the catastrophe so decisive and affecting as he intended.
While Victory, with equipoised wings, hovered over both armies, a messenger arrived from the town-hall with intelligence that dinner was ready. This news quickly spread among the combatants, and had an effect similar to that which the Sabine women produced when they rushed between their ravishers and their relations.—The warriors of Geneva relented at once; and both armies suspended their animosity, in the contemplation of that which they both loved.—They threw down their arms, shook hands, and were friends.
Thus ended the battle.—I don’t know how it will affect you; but it has fatigued me so completely, that I have lost all appetite for the feast, which must therefore be delayed till another post.
Geneva.
The same company which had attended the King to the field of battle, marched with him in procession from that to the Maison de Ville, where a sumptuous entertainment was prepared.
This was exactly the reverse of a fête champêtre, being held in the town-house, and in the middle of the streets adjacent; where tables were covered, and dinner provided, for several hundreds of the officers and soldiers.
The King, the Syndics, most of the members of the Council, and all the strangers, dined in the town-hall. The other rooms, as well as the outer court, were likewise full of company.
There was much greater havoc at dinner than had been at the battle, and the entertainment in other respects was nearly as warlike.
A kettle-drum was placed in the middle of the hall, upon which a martial flourish was performed at every toast. This was immediately answered by the drums and trumpets without the hall, and the cannon of the bastion.
Prosperity to the republic is a favourite toast:—When this was announced by the first Syndic, all the company stood up with their swords drawn in one hand, and glasses filled with wine in the other.
Having drank the toast, they clashed their swords, a ceremony always performed in every circle or club where there is a public dinner, as often as this particular toast is named.—It is an old custom, and implies that every man is ready to fight in defence of the republic.
After we had been about two hours at table, a new ceremony took place, which I expected as little in the middle of a feast. An hundred grenadiers, with their swords drawn, marched with great solemnity into the middle of the hall, for the tables being placed in the form of a horse-shoe, there was vacant space in the middle sufficient to admit them.
They desired permission to give a toast: This being granted, each of the grenadiers, by a well-timed movement, like a motion in the exercise, pulled from his pocket a large water glass, which being immediately filled with wine, one of the soldiers, in the name of all, drank a health to King Moses the first. His example was followed by his companions and all the company, and was instantly honoured by the sound of the drums, trumpets, and artillery.
When the grenadiers had drank this, and a toast or two more, they wheeled about, and marched out of the hall with the same solemnity with which they had entered, resuming their places at the tables in the street.
Soon after this a man fantastically dressed entered the hall, and distributed among the company some printed sheets which seemed to have come directly from the press.
This proved to be a song made for the occasion, replete with gaiety, wit, and good sense, pointing out, in a humorous strain, the advantages which the citizens of Geneva possessed, and exhorting them to unanimity, industry, and public spirit.—This ditty was sung by the man who brought it, while many of the company joined in the chorus.
When we descended from the town-hall, we found the soldiers intermingled with their officers, still seated at the tables in the streets, and encircled by their wives and children.
They all arose soon after, and dividing into different companies, repaired to the ramparts, the fields, and the gardens where, with music and dancing, they continued in high glee during the rest of the evening.
The whole exhibition of the day, though no very just representation of the manœuvres of war, or the elegance of a court entertainment, formed the most lively picture of jollity, mirth, good-humour and cordiality, that I had ever seen.
The inhabitants of a whole city,—of a whole state if you please, united in one scene of good fellowship, like a single family, is surely no common sight.
If this sketch conveys one half of the satisfaction to your mind, which the scene itself afforded mine, you will not think these two long letters tedious.
Geneva.
There are some of the citizens of Geneva themselves who deride the little military establishment of the republic, and declare it to be highly ridiculous in such a feeble state to presume that they could defend themselves. The very idea of resistance against Savoy or France, they hold as absurd.
They seem to take pleasure in mortifying their countrymen, assuring them, that in case of an attack all their efforts would be fruitless, and their garrison unable to stand a siege of ten days.
These politicians declaim against the needless expence of keeping the fortifications in repair, and they calculate the money lost, by so many manufacturers being employed in wielding useless firelocks, instead of the tools of their respective professions.
Were I a member of this republic, I should have no patience with these discouraging malcontents, who endeavour to depress the minds of their countrymen, and embitter a source of real enjoyment.
I am convinced that the garrison, small as it is, aided by the zeal of the inhabitants, and regulated by that share of discipline which their situation admits, would be sufficient to secure them from a coup-de-main, or any immediate insult, and might enable them to defend the town from the attempts of any one of the neighbouring states, till they should receive succour from some of the others.
Independent of these considerations, the ramparts are most agreeable walks, convenient for the inhabitants, and ornamental to the city.
The exercising and reviewing the militia form an innocent and agreeable spectacle to the women and children, contribute to the health and amusement of the troops themselves, and inspire the inhabitants in general with the pleasing ideas of security and of their own importance.
Upon the whole, I am convinced that the fortifications, and the militia of Geneva, produce more happiness, in these various ways taken together, than could be purchased by all the money they cost, expended in any other manner.
This I imagine is more than can be said in favour of the greater part of the standing armies on the continent of Europe, whose numbers secure the despotism of the prince, whose maintenance is a most severe burden upon the countries which support them, and whose discipline, instead of exciting pleasing emotions, impresses the mind with horror.
The individuals who compose those armies are miserable, by the tyranny exercised on them, and are themselves the cause of misery to their fellow-citizens by the tyranny they exercise.
But it will be said they defend the nation from foreign enemies.—Alas, could a foreign conqueror occasion more wretchedness than such defenders?—When he who calls himself my protector has stripped me of my property, and deprived me of my freedom, I cannot return him very cordial thanks, when he tells me, that he will defend me from every other robber.
The most solid security which this little republic has for its independency, is founded on the mutual jealousy of its neighbours.
There is no danger of its meeting with the misfortune which has so lately befallen Poland.—Geneva is such an atom of a state as not to be divisible.
It serves, however, as a kind of barrier or alarm-post to the Swiss Cantons, particularly that of Bern, which certainly would not like to see it in the hands either of the King of France or of Sardinia.
The acquisition is not worth the attention of the first; and it is better for the second, that the republic should remain in its present free and independent situation, than that it should revert to his possession, and be subjected to the same government with his other dominions.
For no sooner would Geneva be in the possession of Sardinia, than the wealthiest of the citizens would abandon it, and carry their families and riches to Switzerland, Holland, or England.
Trade and manufactures would dwindle with the spirit and independence of the inhabitants; and the flourishing, enlightened, happy city of Geneva, like other towns of Piedmont and Savoy, would become the residence of oppression, superstition, and poverty.
In this situation it could add but little to the King’s revenue; whereas, at present, the peasants of his dominions resort in great numbers to Geneva every market-day, where they find a ready sale for all the productions of their farms. The land is, on this account, more valuable, and the peasants are more at their ease, though the taxes are very high, than in any other part of Savoy.
This republic, therefore, in its present independent state, is of more use to the King of Sardinia, than if it were his property.
If a wealthy merchant should purchase a piece of ground from a poor Lord, build a large house, and form beautiful gardens upon it, keep a number of servants, spend a great part of his revenue in good housekeeping and hospitality, the consumption of his table, and many other articles, being purchased from this Lord’s tenants, it is evident that they would become rich, and be able to pay a larger rent to their landlord. This Lord would certainly act against his own interest, if he attempted, by law, chicane, or force, to dispossess the proprietor of the house and gardens.
The free republic of Geneva is to the King of Sardinia, exactly what the supposed rich man would be to the poor Lord.
It affords me satisfaction to perceive, that the stability of this little fabric of freedom, raised by my friends the citizens of Geneva, does not depend on the justice and moderation of the neighbouring powers, or any equivocal support; but is founded on the solid, lasting pillars of their mutual interest.