The name of Tom Paine is familiar to every Englishman. Had I not been previously acquainted with him I should have contrived an interview with him during my stay in Paris. Nearly ten years had elapsed since we were last together, and I felt deeply interested in learning his opinions concerning the French Revolution, after all the experiences, so long a period of storms and convulsion, must have afforded him.

It was not without considerable difficulty that I discovered his residence, for the name of Thomas Paine is now odious in France, far more so than in England. A bookseller’s shop in the Palais Royal appeared a likely place for inquiries, but I had no sooner mentioned his name than the bookseller, his wife and a bystander fell upon me, in the most unmerciful manner, calling Paine “Scélérat, bandit, coquin!” and ascribing to him the resistance Leclerc had received from the negroes of St. Domingo, of which repulse to French arms they had just received intelligence, so that I found it necessary to decamp as soon as possible.

Being at a loss how to proceed, I determined to inquire at the hotel of the American Minister, where I was informed that Paine lived at a bookseller’s in the Rue du Théâtre Français, an American bookseller, who inhabited No. 2. I immediately repaired to the house, and after mounting to the second storey, was shown into a little dirty room, containing a small wooden table and two chairs. “This,” said the portress, who had guided me upstairs, “is Mr. Paine’s room; he is taking a nap, but will be here presently.” I never saw such a filthy apartment in the whole course of my life. The chimney hearth was a heap of dirt. There was not a speck of cleanliness anywhere. Three shelves were filled with paste-board boxes, each labelled after the manner of a Minister of Foreign Affairs: “Correspondance Américaine, Ditto Britannique—idem Française. Notices politiques. Le Citoyen Français,” &c. In one corner of the room stood several huge bars of iron, curiously shaped, and two large trunks; opposite the fireplace a board covered with pamphlets and journals, having more the appearance of a dresser in a scullery than a sideboard. Such was the wretched habitation where I found Thomas Paine, one of the founders of the American Independence, whose extraordinary genius must ever command attention, and whose writings have summoned to action the minds of the most enlightened politicians of Europe! How different the dwelling of the apostle of Freedom from the gorgeous mansions tenanted by the apostles of the French Republic!

After I had waited for a short time, Mr. Paine came downstairs, dressed in a long flannel gown.

I was shocked by his altered appearance. Time seemed to have made dreadful ravages over his frame, and a settled melancholy was visible over his countenance. He pressed me by the hand, his countenance brightened as he recollected me, and a tear stole down his cheek. Nor was I less affected than himself. “Thus we are met once more, Mr. Paine, after a separation of ten years, and after we have both been severely weather-beaten.”

“Aye,” he replied, “and who would have thought that we should meet in Paris,” he continued, with a smile of contempt; “they have shed blood enough for liberty, and now they have liberty in perfection, no honest man should live in this country, they do not and cannot understand the principles of free government. They have conquered half Europe only to make it more miserable than before.”

I replied that I thought much might yet be done for the Republic. “Republic!” he exclaimed, “this is no Republic! I know of no Republic but that of America, and that is the only place for men like you and I. It is my intention to return as soon as possible. You are a young man, and may see better times. For myself I renounce all European politics.”

I enumerated my objections, concluding with the want of society and the apprehension I had of contracting yellow fever. These objections he met by declaring there was as good and even better society in America than in Europe; and as to the yellow fever, proper precautions would cause it wholly to disappear. In the course of our long conversation about America he put into my hands a letter written to him by Mr. Jefferson, the President of the United States.

It was dictated with the freedom of an old friend. Mr. Jefferson began by congratulating Mr. Paine upon his determination to settle finally in the New World, for he says he will find on his return a favourable change in the political opinions of the citizens, who are happily come back to those enlightened principles which he, Mr. Paine, had so usefully contributed to spread over the world. As Mr. Paine had expressed a desire to return in a public manner, he states that the sloop of war which brought the Minister Livingston from France would return at a given time and convey him to America if he could make it convenient to take advantage of the occasion. The rest of the letter is couched in terms of the warmest friendship, assuring Mr. Paine of a hearty reception.

When I had perused this letter he observed that only four persons now survived who had acted in concert during the American Revolution, John Adams,[1] Jefferson,[1] Livingston[1] and himself. He continued laughingly: “It would be a curious circumstance if I were sent as Secretary of Legation to the British Court, which outlawed me. What a hubbub it would create at the King’s levée to see Tom Paine presented by the American ambassador! All the bishops and great ladies would faint away; the women supposing I came to rob and ravish them, the bishops to rob and ravish their titles. I think it would be a good joke!”

But he finally added that this was not a probable event to occur at his time of life, but that he should dispose of his American property, live on the interest, and amuse himself by writing memoirs of his life and correspondence, two volumes of which he had already completed. The estate he possesses in America is valuable, he estimates it at about £7000.

I inquired how he had passed his life since we parted. He gave a long account of his occupations since he was sent to prison. During our invasion of Holland he went to Brussels, where he passed a few days with General Bruno, with a view, he declared, of accompanying him to Holland, “to see the last of John Bull.” But he said that in France and in the French army there was but one opinion concerning that event, i.e., the final certain success of the English.

When he was in prison he wrote “The Age of Reason,” and amused himself by carrying on a correspondence with Lady S——, under the assumed name of “The Castle in the Air.” To this her ladyship answered under the title of “The Little Corner of the World.” This correspondence still continues.

He showed me some of it, which, notwithstanding the dreadful places in which it was composed, is beautiful and interesting. He is the author of that beautiful song on the death of General Wolfe, which a few years ago was in every one’s mouth. The following extract from one of his manuscript essays affords a competent idea of his manner in treating subjects less solemn and invidious than politics.

TO FORGETFULNESS.

From the “Castle in the Air,” to the “Little Corner of the World.”

Memory like a beauty that is always present to hear herself flattered, is flattered by every one. But the silent goddess Forgetfulness has no votaries, yet we owe her much. She is the goddess of ease, though not of pleasure.

When the mind is like a room hung with black, and every corner of it is crowded with the most horrid images Imagination can create, this kind speechless goddess Forgetfulness is following us night and day with her opium wand and gently touching first one and then another, benumbs them into rest, and at last glides away with the silence of a departing shadow.

How dismal must the picture of life appear to that soul which resolves on darkness and to die! Yet how many of the young and beautiful, timid in everything else, have shut their eyes upon the world and made the waters their sepulchral bed! Ah! if at that crisis they had thought or tried to think that Forgetfulness would eventually come to their relief, they would lay hold on life.

All grief, like all things else, will yield to the obliterating power of time, while Despair is preying on the mind, Time is preying upon Despair and Forgetfulness will change the scene.

I have twice been present at a scene of attempted suicide. The one a love-distracted girl in England; the other a patriotic friend in France. I will relate these circumstances to you. They will in some measure corroborate my assertion upon Forgetfulness.

About the year 1766 I was in Lincolnshire on a visit to a widow lady, Mrs. E. It was summer and after supper one evening Mrs. E. and I went to take a turn in the garden. It was about eleven o’clock, to avoid the night air of the Fens, we were walking in a bower shaded by hazel bushes. On a sudden she screamed and pointed to a white shapeless figure without head or arms, moving along one of the walks at some distance away. I quitted my companion and went after it. When I got up into the walk where the figure was, it took a cross walk. There was a holly bush on the corner of the two walks, which, being night, I did not observe, and as I continued to step forward the holly bush came in a straight line between me and the figure, which thus appeared to have vanished. But when I had passed the bush I caught sight of the figure again, and coming up to it put out my hand to touch it. My hand rested on the shoulder of a human figure. I spoke, it answered “Pray let me alone.” I then recognised a young lady on a visit to Mrs. E., who that evening, on the plea of indisposition, had not joined us at supper. I said, “My God! I hope you are not going to do yourself some hurt!” She replied, with pathetic melancholy, “Life has not one pleasure left for me.” I got her into the house, and Mrs. E. took her to sleep in her room.

The case was, the man who had promised to marry her had forsaken her, and was about to be married to another. The shock and sorrow appeared to her too great to be borne. She had retired to her room, and when, as she supposed, all the family had gone to bed, she undressed herself, tied her apron over her head—which, descending below her waist, gave her a shapeless figure—and was going to drown herself in a pond at the bottom of the garden, when I arrested her progress.

By gentle usage, and leading her into subjects that might distract her mind and occupy her thoughts, we gradually stole her from the horror and misery she was in. In the course of a few months she recovered her former cheerfulness, and was afterwards a happy wife and mother of a family.

The other case is as follows:[9] In Paris, in 1793, I had lodgings in the Rue Faubourg St. Denis, No. 63; they were agreeable, except for the fact that they were too remote from the Convention, of which I was a member. But this was recompensed by the lodging being also remote from the alarms and confusion into which the interior of Paris was so often thrown at this time. The house, which was enclosed by a wall and gateway from the street, was a good deal like an old mansion farmhouse, and the courtyard was stocked like a farmyard, with fowls, turkeys and geese, which for amusement we used to feed out of the window of the parlour on the ground floor. There were some hutches for rabbits, and a stye or two for pigs. Beyond was a garden of two acres, well laid out and stocked with excellent fruit-trees. The orange, the apple, the greengage and the plum were the best I ever tasted. The place had formerly been occupied by some curious person.

My apartments consisted of three rooms. The first for wood, water, &c., with an old-fashioned chest high enough to hang up clothes in. The next was the bedroom, and beyond the sitting-room. At the end of the sitting-room was a glass door leading to a flight of narrow stairs, by which I could descend privately into the garden.

I went into my chamber to write and sign a certificate for them, which I intended to take into the guard-house to obtain their release. Just as I had finished it, a man came into my room dressed in the uniform of a captain, spoke to me in good English and with a good address.

He told me that two young Englishmen were arrested and detained at the guard-house, and that “the section” had sent him to ask me if I knew them and would answer for them, and in that case they would be liberated.

This matter being soon settled between us, he talked to me about the “Rights of Man,” which he had read in English, and finally took his leave in the politest and most friendly manner, saying he was always at my service.

This man, who so civilly offered me his service, turned out to be Samson, the public executioner, who guillotined the King and all the political victims of the Revolution.

As for me, I used to find some relief by walking alone in the garden after it was dark, and cursing with hearty good will the authors of that terrible system which had so altered the character of that Revolution I had been so proud to defend.[10]

I went but little to the Convention, and then only to show an appearance, because I found it impossible to join in their tremendous decrees, and useless and dangerous to oppose them. My having voted, as well as extensively spoken (more so than any member) against the execution of the King, had already fixed a mark upon me; neither dared any of my associates in the Convention translate and speak in French for me, as they formerly did when I wished to make my views publicly known.[11]

Pen and ink was then of no use to me. No good could be done by writing what no printer dared to print; and whatever I might have written for my private amusement as anecdotes of the times would have been continually exposed to be examined and tortured into any meaning the rage of party might fix upon it. And my heart was in distress at the fate of my friends, and my harp strung upon the weeping willows.

It was summer; we therefore spent most of our time in the garden, and passed it away in childish amusements, such as marbles, scotch hop, battledore, &c., so as to try and keep reflection from our minds.

In this retired manner we remained about six or seven weeks. Our landlord went every evening into the city to bring us the news of the day and the Evening journal.

He recovered, and being anxious to get out of France, a passport was obtained for him and his friend, chiefly, I believe, by the means of the huissier Rose, and secretly by the influence of some of the members of the Committee.[12] They received their passport late in the evening, but set off that same night in a post-chaise to Basle, which place they reached in safety. The very morning after their departure I heard a rapping at the gate, and looking out of the window I beheld entering the courtyard a guard with muskets and fixed bayonets. It was a guard to take up the fugitives, but they were already, happily, out of their reach.[13]

The same guard returned a month later and took the Landlord Geit and myself to prison!

I have often been in company with Mr. Paine since my arrival in Paris. I was surprised to find him quite indifferent about the public spirit in England or the influence of his doctrines upon his fellow countrymen. Indeed he disliked the mention of the subject, and when one day I casually remarked that I had altered my opinions upon my principles, he said:

“You certainly have the right to do so, but you cannot alter the nature of things; the French have alarmed all honest men, but still truth is truth. My principles are possibly almost impracticable and might cause in their carrying out much misery and confusion, but they are just.” Here he spoke with the greatest severity of Mr. ——, who had obtained a seat in Parliament, and said: “parsons were always mischievous fellows.” I then hinted to him that his publication of the “Age of Reason” had lost him the good opinion of many Englishmen. He became uncommonly warm at this remark, and said he only published it “to inspire mankind with a higher idea of the Supreme Architect of the Universe, and to put an end to villainous imposture.”

He then broke out into violent invectives against Christianity, declaring at the same time his intense reverence for the Omnipotent Supreme Being. He avowed himself ready to lay down his life in support of his opinions and said “The Bishop of Llandaff may roast me in Smithfield if he likes, but human torture cannot shake my opinions.”

I assured him that the Bishop of Llandaff was a man of too enlightened, tolerant and humane a disposition to wish to roast any man for differing with him in opinions, and that his celebrated apology breathes tolerance in every page.

“Aye, it is an apology indeed, for priestcraft. Parsons will meddle and make mischief, they thus hurt their own cause, but I have a rod in pickle for Mr. Bishop.” Here he reached down a copy of the Bishop’s work, interleaved with remarks upon it, which he read to me. It seems as if in proportion to his present listlessness in politics, his zeal in his religious or anti-religious opinions increases; of this the following anecdote is an instance.

An English lady of our acquaintance, as remarkable for her talents as her charm of person and manners, entreated me to arrange a meeting for her with Mr. Paine. As this lady is a very rigid Roman Catholic I cautioned Mr. Paine beforehand to be very discreet in touching upon religious subjects, and with much good nature he promised to be so. For about four hours he kept every one of the company on this occasion in astonishment and admiration of his memory, of his keen observation of men and women, his numberless anecdotes of the American Indians, of the American War, of Franklin, Washington and even of his Majesty the King, of whom he told several curious anecdotes of humour and benevolence. His remarks on genius and taste can never be forgotten by those present.

So far all went excellently well, and the sparkling champagne gave a zest to his conversation, and we were all delighted. But, alas! alas! one of the company happened to allude to his “Age of Reason,” he then broke out immediately. He began with astronomy, and addressing himself to Mrs. Y——, the lady in question, he declared that the least inspection of the motion of the stars proved Moses to be a liar. Nothing would then stop him. In vain I attempted to change the subject by every artifice in my power. He returned to the charge with unabated ardour.

The ladies gradually stole unobserved from the room, and left three other gentlemen and myself to contest or rather leave him master of the field of battle.

I felt extremely mortified, and reminded him of his promise.

“Oh!” says he, “what a pity people should be so prejudiced!” One of the most extraordinary properties belonging to Mr. Paine is the power of retaining everything he has written during his life. He can repeat word for word every sentence in his “Common Sense”—“Rights of Man”—“Age of Reason” and others. This I attribute first to the unparalleled slowness with which he composes every passage he writes, and secondly to his dislike of reading other books than his own. Wonderful and productive as his mechanical genius is, he assured me he never has read anything on this subject. This he told me when showing me one day the beautiful models of two bridges he had devised. These models exhibit an extraordinary degree of skill and taste. They are wrought with extreme delicacy, entirely by his own hands. The longest is nearly four feet long, the iron work, the chains and every other article belonging to it were forged and manufactured by himself. It is intended to be a model for a bridge to span the Delaware extending 480 feet, with a single arch. The other is to be erected over a lesser river (whose name indeed I have forgotten), and is likewise a single arch of his own workmanship, excepting the chains, which instead of iron are cut out of paste-board, by the fair hands of his correspondent, “Little Corner of the World.” He was offered £3000 sterling for those models, but has refused it. He intends to dispose of them to the American Government. The iron bars, I noticed in the corner of his room, are also forged by himself, and as the model of a new description of crane. He put them together and exhibited to me the power of a lever in a surprising degree.

It would require the leisure and the memory of James Boswell himself to relate in detail the conversations I had while in Paris with Thomas Paine, or the opinions and anecdotes he recounted. I shall therefore only conclude this account of him with a few words, respecting his acquaintance with Bonaparte.

When the hero of Italy had returned to Paris, in order to take the command of that “Army of England” (whose left wing he afterwards conducted to the burning sands of Egypt instead of the Valley of Thames) he called on Mr. Paine and invited him to dinner.

In the course of his rapturous ecstasies, he declared that a statue of gold ought to be erected to him in every city in the universe; he also assured Paine that he (Bonaparte) always slept with a copy of the “Rights of Man” under his pillow, and conjured him to honour him with his counsel and advice.

When the Military Council of Paris, who then directed the movements of Bonaparte, came to a serious consultation about the invasion of England, Mr. Paine was at the sitting by special invitation. After they had ransacked all the plans, charts and projects of the Monarchical Government, Bonaparte submitted to them that they should hear what Citizen Paine had to say on the matter. They were, however, already all of opinion that the measure was impracticable and dangerous in idea, much more in attempt. General d’Arcor, a celebrated engineer (who directed the siege of Gibraltar during the American War), was one of this Council. He laughed at the project, and said there was no Prince Charlie nowadays, and that they might as well attempt to invade the moon as England, considering her superior fleet at sea. “Ah! but,” exclaimed Bonaparte, “there will be a fog.” “Yes,” replied d’Arcor, “but there will be an English fleet in that fog.” “Cannot we pass?” said Bonaparte. “Doubtless,” answered the other, “if you dive below twenty fathoms of water.” Then, looking steadfastly at the hero, “General,” he continued, “the earth is ours, but not the sea; we must recruit our fleets before we can hope to make any impression on England, and even then the enterprise would be fraught with perdition, unless we could raise a diversion among the people.”

Then Bonaparte rose and said with dignity and emphasis: “That is the very point I mean—here is Citizen Paine, who will tell you that the whole English nation, except the Royal Family and the Hanoverians, who have been created Peers of the Realm and absorb the landed property, are ardently burning for fraternisation.”

Paine being called upon said: “It is now many years since I have been in England, and therefore I can judge of it by what I knew when I was there. I think the people are very disaffected, but I am sorry to add that if the expedition should escape the fleet, I think the army would be cut to pieces. The only way to kill England is to annihilate her commerce.” This opinion was backed by all the Council, and Bonaparte, turning to Paine, asked him how long it would take to annihilate British commerce? Paine answered that everything depended on a Peace. From that hour Bonaparte has never spoken to him again, and when he returned from finishing his adventures in Egypt, he passed by him at a grand dinner given to the Generals of the Republic a short time before his usurpation, staring him in the face and then remarking in a loud voice to General Lasnes, “The English are all alike, in every country they are rascals” (canailles).

Mr. Paine thinks the Directorate determined upon the Egyptian expedition in consequence of the rejection of the project to invade England by the Council. The popularity of Bonaparte was so excessive and his inflammatory and determined character so great that they were glad to get rid of him in any way they could. Paine detests and despises Bonaparte, and declares he is the completest charlatan that ever existed.

Mr. Joel Barlow lives at No. 50, Rue Vaugirard, one of the finest houses in Paris. As he was not at home when I first called, I inquired of the servant if any one lived there besides Mr. Barlow, and was answered that it was his own house and he had purchased it (it was confiscated property and sold much below its value). The next day Mr. Barlow called on me and invited us to visit him, when he received us with great cordiality and showed us over his magnificent hotel. It was however, wholly destitute of furniture, excepting four rooms, occupied by himself and his family. He explained he had bought the house some years previously, purely as a speculation, with the idea that at the return of Peace he might sell it to some English ambassador or nobleman, who should choose to reside in Paris, when he hoped to get £6000 sterling instead of the 6000 livres Français he originally gave for it. It certainly would suit an ambassador in point of accommodation, and its situation is desirable. The lawn at the back, consisting of two acres of pleasure ground, bordered by a shrubbery, is bordered by fruit trees, but it is far from the centre of the city, and I doubt he will get the price he asks, notwithstanding the influx of strangers. He informed me that the instant he had disposed of this property he intended to return to America with Mrs. Barlow. Of the Republic and its rulers he entertains a profound contempt. Respecting the English Government and its rulers, he said very little, but that little was in their favour. He confessed his utter astonishment at the exertions we had made during the War, and avowed that he had entirely mistaken the financial resources and patriotic spirit of Great Britain.

“I have been calculating,” he said, “year by year the downfall of the Government, and could not conceive it possible you could stand up another year. Whenever I took up a paper and saw the Committee of Ways and Means and read of your subsidies, I looked for a national bankruptcy in the course of the ensuing twelve months. But when Mr. Pitt came forward with the Income Tax, all the wise heads of this metropolis (Paris) gave you over as lost, and I pronounced you saved. When I saw the nation cheerfully submit to it, I was convinced you might carry on the war for fifty years.” He spoke of Mr. Pitt in terms which surprised me, and declared he believed in his conscience, if he had dared to execute to the full extent of what he thought, he would have succeeded in changing the face of Europe. “At all events,” said he, “it cannot be denied that he has the merit of having saved the old fabric (meaning the Constitution), if it be worth saving.”

On my asking what he thought of the Peace and our present situation, he said that he saw nothing censurable in it, but had cut out plenty of work for the French which he was sure they would never finish. “If they do, woe betide you!” I asked for an explanation, and he replied, “If the French Government are intent on Peace they will set themselves seriously to work on their colonies; and such is the activity of the French that they will soon repair their losses, create a vast commerce, which their local possessions and influences will facilitate, and they will end with a powerful navy.” On my noticing that they had already excluded our commerce, he answered: “That will just give you an idea what a set of fools they are. This false step at the first start is a convincing proof they don’t know how to go to work. The prohibition of your manufactories has created an avidity for them. They should have opened a free trade with you and gradually cozened away your industry and mechanics. But this Government is in such a confounded hurry that instead of sticking to any given point, it attempts five hundred different projects and only succeeds in one, enslaving the people!”

He thought the Peace might be permanent if any change took place in the Government; but with Bonaparte at its head he was convinced it could not be of long duration. For the First Consul is essentially the creature of the army, and hungry generals and soldiers are hourly importuning him. Unless he could find them employment they would employ him.

I asked if he thought Bonaparte secure. He replied: “Not more so than any of his predecessors; they are satisfied and grateful because he does not use the guillotine, but we have not yet got to the end of the third act of the Revolution. It is impossible to tell, but my guess is it will end either in the complete subjugation of Europe or in a bloody civil war between rival Generals, Republicans, Jacobins and Royalists, and bring back out of its confusion a Royal establishment.”

The Abbé Costi is a phenomenon; he is eighty-four years of age, and as frolicsome as a boy of eighteen. His reputation as the first poet of Italy has long been established, and it is certain he would be now Laureate to the First Consul had it not been for his enthusiastic admiration for the principle of true liberty. We have frequently been in his company, and have always found him in the same lively humour, but it is rather unpleasant to hear him speak, as he has lost the roof of his mouth. He is endeavouring to procure a subscription for a splendid edition of his works, and proposes visiting England for that purpose.

Dr. Suedaeur intended to have gone to Naples and established himself there as a physician, but the sbirri of the Committee of Public Safety arrested him as he was leaving France on foot and in disguise. They gave him his choice—to go to prison and appear a day or two later before the Revolutionary Tribunal, or to be a Director of a public establishment in which some chemical operations were being carried out for the use of the armies. The doctor naturally accepted the latter. As soon as he had taken up his position in his new residence an order came that he was never to go out of the house on pain of being instantly sent to prison. This was a cruel joke, as the doctor was of course virtually a close prisoner during the eighteen months he was superintending this factory. At length he was allowed to breathe the fresh air, attended by a guard, and to visit certain patients; but the guard attended him even into the chambers of the sick, even under circumstances of peculiar delicacy. Upon his presenting a remonstrance against this indecorum, he was sent straight to prison, with a promise that he should be tried with the next batch of prisoners for conspiring against the unity and indivisibility of the Republic. After keeping him in jail for some time, he was taken out of his bed at midnight, put into a hackney coach and brought back to his lodging in the Governmental establishment. The next morning, just as he was putting things there a little in order, he was again arrested and carried before the Committee of General Vigilance, of which the painter David was a present member, who, giving him one of his snarling tiger grins, asked him how he dared as a foreigner have his name inscribed at his Section. While the doctor was endeavouring to explain, David accused him of being an agent of Pitt, and he was remanded to prison. Two days later a guard took him once more to the Committee of Public Safety, who told him there had been a mistake in his affair.

It was a lucky thing the mistake was discovered, as on that very morning all his fellow-prisoners were tried and found guilty of conspiring against the Republic and summarily executed.

He was once again remanded to his Directorship and forbidden to leave his lodgings.

At last an end came to those days of blood and peril, and the doctor was liberated, after being duly ruined. Thrown upon the wide world at his age, when something like comfort and ease had become necessary, he found he had to beat up again his learning through life.

Sometimes he thought of going to America or England. A mere accident repaired his fortunes. A female personage of high consequence was suddenly taken ill in her husband’s absence. Suedaeur attended and cured her. He was thenceforward recommended and pushed among the Governmental people. He now keeps his carriage, and makes, as he tells me, over 50,000 livres (£2000 sterling) per annum.

The effect of his sufferings is, however, very apparent. He looks older than his years. He has lost his vivacity and his tongue is sealed on politics, in which he declares he will never more have any concern.

But he told us many histories of the Terror, and one which struck me as peculiarly sad and horrible I will relate, because it concerns an Englishman.

Young L—— (whose mother is still alive and resides in London) was sent to Paris in order to polish and keep him out of harm’s way. I remember him well; he was a good-natured lad, very incautious, and possessed of great simplicity of manners. He was a most impassioned English patriot, and openly cursed the French and their measures, for which indiscretion Suedaeur remonstrated with him in vain. The Committee of Public Safety, wanting some English heads for exhibition, ordered his arrestation. Suedaeur visited him in prison. He was always merry, full of the heyday of youth, and continued to blaspheme the French Republic. “Rule Britannia” and “God Save the King” were the favourite songs with which he made his prison walls resound. But these very songs proved him to be a “serf” of King George and an agent of Pitt. It was evident, said Fouquier-Tainville, the Public Accuser, that he was engaged in a conspiracy to destroy the unity and indivisibility of the Republic. Accordingly he was brought before the Revolutionary Tribunal, with a vast number of other persons of both sexes, among whom was Colonel Newton, who was sentenced to death for playing at cards.[14]

As the poor youth knew scarcely anything of the French language, he was quite unaware of what passed. They asked him no questions, merely sentenced him to die. When he returned to prison he was as unconcerned and gay as ever, for he had not the most distant idea he had ever been tried. The next morning he was led down into the courtyard, where the fatal cart, attended by gens-d’armes awaited him. At the same instant Dr. Suedaeur entered the prison to take a last adieu of him and Colonel Newton. Colonel Newton was seated in the cart already, bound and looking very dejected. The spectacle of Newton bound and in that situation surprised and startled the young man, who inquired where they were going to take him. He could not make himself understood, as he did not speak French. At that instant Suedaeur overwhelmed with grief, came up to him. He asked hastily, “Dr. Suedaeur! what are they going to do with me?” “My poor lost boy,” said Suedaeur, quite overcome and bursting into tears, “you are going to instant death!” “To death!” he cried, “I have not been tried!” Then wringing his hands, he exclaimed, “Oh God! Oh God!” and swooned away in the arms of the doctor. While in this condition he was flung into the cart. He recovered before he reached the scaffold, and cried more bitterly. Colonel Newton (who had long served under Suwarroff, and received twelve wounds at the storming of Ishmael, and was colonel of the Regiment of Dragoons which guarded the King to the scaffold), pitying the distress of the youth, employed the last moments of his existence in administering comfort to him. But Nature was uppermost, the misery of his afflicted mother rushed into his mind, and he did not cease to exclaim: “My poor mother! my poor mother!” until the fatal axe closed his eyes upon this world. His person was extremely prepossessing, and the sight of his unaltered countenance was enough to wring a tear from a heart of stone. He was but eighteen years of age, and the only child of his widowed mother.