Читать книгу A Residence in France During the Years 1792, 1793, 1794 and 1795, Complete - Charlotte Biggs - Страница 18

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Had I been accompanied by an antiquary this morning, his ſenſibility would have been ſeverely exerciſed; for even I, whoſe reſpect for antiquity is not ſcientific, could not help lamenting the modern rage for devaſtation which has ſeized the French. They are removing all "the time-honoured figureſ" of the cathedral, and painting its maſſive ſupporters in the ſtyle of a ball-room. The elaborate uncouthneſs of ancient ſculpture is not, indeed, very beautiful; yet I have often fancied there was ſomething more ſimply pathetic in the aukward effigy of an hero kneeling amidſt his trophies, or a regal pair with their ſupplicating hands and ſurrounding offſpring, than in the graceful figures and poetic allegories of the modern artiſt. The humble intreaty to the reader to "praye for the ſoule of the departed," is not very elegant—yet it is better calculated to recall the wanderings of morality, than the flattering epitaph, a Fame hovering in the air, or the ſuſpended wreath of the remunerating angel.—But I moralize in vain—the rage of theſe new Goths is inexorable: they ſeem ſolicitous to deſtroy every veſtige of civilization, leſt the people ſhould remember they have not always been barbarians.

After obtaining an order from the municipality, we went to ſee the gardens and palace of the Biſhop, who has emigrated. The garden haſ nothing very remarkable, but is large and well laid out, according to the old ſtyle. It forms a very agreeable walk, and, when the Biſhop poſſeſt it, was open for the enjoyment of the inhabitants, but it is now ſhut up and in diſorder. The houſe is plain, and ſubſtantially furniſhed, and exhibits no appearance of unbecoming luxury. The whole is now the property of the nation, and will ſoon be diſpoſed of.—I could not help feeling a ſenſation of melancholy as we walked over the apartments. Every thing is marked in an inventory, juſt as left; and an air of arrangement and reſidence leads one to reflect, that the owner did not imagine at his departure he was quitting it perhaps for ever. I am not partial to the original emigrants, yet much may be ſaid for the Biſhop of Arras. He was purſued by ingratitude, and marked for perſecution. The Robeſpierres were young men whom he had taken from a mean ſtate, had educated, and patronized. The revolution gave them an opportunity of diſplaying their talents, and their talents procured them popularity. They became enemies to the clergy, becauſe their patron was a Biſhop; and endeavoured to render their benefactor odious, becauſe the world could not forget, nor they forgive, how much they were indebted to him.—Vice is not often paſſive; nor is there often a medium between gratitude for benefits, and hatred to the author of them. A little mind is hurt by the remembrance of obligation—begins by forgetting, and, not uncommonly, ends by perſecuting.

We dined and paſſed the afternoon from home to-day. After dinner our hoſteſs, as uſual, propoſed cards; and, as uſual in French ſocieties, every one aſſented: we waited, however, ſome time, and no cards came—till, at length, converſation-parties were formed, and they were no longer thought of. I have ſince learned, from one of the young women of the houſe, that the butler and two footmen had all betaken themſelves to clubs and Guinguettes,* and the cards, counters, &c. could not be obtained.

* Small public houſes in the vicinity of large towns, where the common people go on Sundays and feſtivals to dance and make merry.

This is another evil ariſing from the circumſtances of the times. All people of property have begun to bury their money and plate, and as the ſervants are often unavoidably privy to it, they are become idle and impertinent—they make a kind of commutation of diligence for fidelity, and imagine that the obſervance of the one exempts them from the neceſſity of the other. The clubs are a conſtant receptacle for idleneſs; and ſervants who think proper to frequent them do it with very little ceremony, knowing that few whom they ſerve would be imprudent enough to diſcharge them for their patriotiſm in attending a Jacobin ſociety. Even ſervants who are not converts to the new principle cannot reſiſt the temptation of abuſing a little the power which they acquire from a knowledge of family affairs. Perhaps the effect of the revolution has not, on the whole, been favourable to the morals of the lower claſſ of people; but this ſhall be the ſubject of diſcuſſion at ſome future period, when I ſhall have had farther opportunities of judging.

We yeſterday viſited the Oratoire, a ſeminary for education, which is now ſuppreſſed. The building is immenſe, and admirably calculated for the purpoſe, but is already in a ſtate of dilapidation; ſo that, I fear, by the time the legiſlature has determined what ſyſtem of inſtruction ſhall be ſubſtituted for that which has been aboliſhed, the children (as the French are fond of examples from the ancients) will take their leſſons, like the Greeks, in the open air; and, in the mean while, become expert in lying and thieving, like the Spartans.

The Superior of the houſe is an immoderate revolutioniſt, ſpeaks Engliſh very well, and is a great admirer of our party writers. In his room I obſerved a vaſt quantity of Engliſh books, and on his chimney ſtood what he called a patriotic clock, the dial of which was placed between two pyramids, on which were inſcribed the names of republican authors, and on the top of one was that of our countryman, Mr. Thomas Paine—whom, by the way, I underſtand you intended to exhibit in a much more conſpicuous and leſs tranquil ſituation. I aſſure you, though you are ungrateful on your ſide of the water, he is in high repute here—his works are tranſlated—all the Jacobins who can read quote, and all who can't, admire him; and poſſibly, at the very moment you are ſentencing him to an inſtallment in the pillory, we may be awarding him a triumph.—Perhaps we are both right. He deſerves the pillory, from you for having endeavoured to deſtroy a good conſtitution—and the French may with equal reaſon grant him a triumph, as their conſtitution is likely to be ſo bad, that even Mr. Thomas Paine's writings may make it better!

Our houſe is ſituated within view of a very pleaſant public walk, where I am daily amuſed with a ſight of the recruits at their exerciſe. This iſ not quite ſo regular a buſineſs as the drill in the Park. The exerciſe is often interrupted by diſputes between the officer and his eleveſ—ſome are for turning to the right, others to the left, and the matter is not unfrequently adjuſted by each going the way that ſeemeth beſt unto himſelf. The author of the "Actes des Apotreſ" [The Acts of the Apoſtles] cites a Colonel who reprimanded one of his corps for walking ill—"Eh Dicentre, (replied the man,) comment veux tu que je marche bien quand tu as fait mes ſouliers trop etroits."* but this is no longer a pleaſantry—ſuch circumſtances are very common. A Colonel may often be tailor to his own regiment, and a Captain operated on the heads of hiſ whole company, in his civil capacity, before he commands them in hiſ military one.

*"And how the deuce can you expect me to march well, when you have made my ſhoes too tight?"

The walks I have juſt mentioned have been extremely beautiful, but a great part of the trees have been cut down, and the ornamental partſ deſtroyed, ſince the revolution—I know not why, as they were open to the poor as well as the rich, and were a great embelliſhment to the low town. You may think it ſtrange that I ſhould be continually dating ſome deſtruction from the aera of the revolution—that I ſpeak of every thing demoliſhed, and of nothing replaced. But it is not my fault—"If freedom grows deſtructive, I muſt paint it:" though I ſhould tell you, that in many ſtreets where convents have been ſold, houſes are building with the materials on the ſame ſite.—This is, however, not a work of the nation, but of individuals, who have made their purchaſes cheap, and are haſtening to change the form of their property, leſt ſome new revolution ſhould deprive them of it.—Yours, &c.