Читать книгу A Residence in France During the Years 1792, 1793, 1794 and 1795, Complete - Charlotte Biggs - Страница 33

Table of Contents

Dear Brother,

All the public prints ſtill continue ſtrongly to inſinuate, that England is prepared for an inſurrection, and Scotland already in actual rebellion: but I know the character of our countrymen too well to be perſuaded that they have adopted new principles as eaſily as they would adopt a new mode, or that the viſionary anarchiſts of the French government can have made many proſelytes among an humane and rational people. For many years we were content to let France remain the arbitreſs of the lighter departments of taſte: lately ſhe has ceded thiſ province to us, and England has dictated with unconteſted ſuperiority. This I cannot think very ſtrange; for the eye in time becomes fatigued by elaborate finery, and requires only the introduction of ſimple elegance to be attracted by it. But if, while we export faſhions to this country, we ſhould receive in exchange her republican ſyſtems, it would be a ſtrange revolution indeed; and I think, in ſuch a commerce, we ſhould be far from finding the balance in our favour. I have, in fact, little ſolicitude about theſe diurnal falſehoods, though I am not altogether free from alarm as to their tendency. I cannot help ſuſpecting it is to influence the people to a belief that ſuch diſpoſitions exiſt in England as preclude the danger of a war, in caſe it ſhould be thought neceſſary to ſacrifice the King.

I am more confirmed in this opinion, from the recent diſcovery, with the circumſtances attending it, of a ſecret iron cheſt at the Tuilleries. The man who had been employed to conſtruct this receſs, informs the miniſter, Rolland; who, inſtead of communicating the matter to the Convention, as it was very natural he ſhould do on an occaſion of ſo much importance, and requiring it to be opened in the preſence of proper witneſſes, goes privately himſelf, takes the papers found into his own poſſeſſion, and then makes an application for a committee to examine them. Under theſe ſuſpicious and myſterious appearances, we are told that many letters, &c. are found, which inculpate the King; and perhapſ the fate of this unfortunate Monarch is to be decided by evidence not admiſſible with juſtice in the caſe of the obſcureſt malefactor. Yet Rolland is the hero of a party who call him, par excellence, the virtuouſ Rolland! Perhaps you will think, with me, that this epithet iſ miſapplied to a man who has riſen, from an obſcure ſituation to that of firſt Miniſter, without being poſſeſſed of talents of that brilliant or prominent claſs which ſometimes force themſelves into notice, without the aid of wealth or the ſupport of patronage.

Rolland was inſpector of manufactories in this place, and afterwards at Lyons; and I do not go too far in advancing, that a man of very rigid virtue could not, from ſuch a ſtation, have attained ſo ſuddenly the one he now poſſeſſes. Virtue is of an unvarying and inflexible nature: it diſdains as much to be the flatterer of mobs, as the adulator of Princes: yet how often muſt he, who riſes ſo far above his equals, have ſtooped below them? How often muſt he have ſacrificed both his reaſon and hiſ principles? How often have yielded to the little, and oppoſed the great, not from conviction, but intereſt? For in this the meaneſt of mankind reſemble the moſt exalted; he beſtows not his confidence on him who reſiſts his will, nor ſubſcribes to the advancement of one whom he doeſ not hope to influence.—I may almoſt venture to add, that more diſſimulation, meaner conceſſions, and more tortuous policy, are requiſite to become the idol of the people, than are practiſed to acquire and preſerve the favour of the moſt potent Monarch in Europe. The French, however, do not argue in this manner, and Rolland is at preſent very popular, and his popularity is ſaid to be greatly ſupported by the literary talents of his wife.

I know not if you rightly underſtand theſe party diſtinctions among a ſet of men whom you muſt regard as united in the common cauſe of eſtabliſhing a republic in France, but you have ſometimes had occaſion to remark in England, that many may amicably concur in the accompliſhment of a work, who differ extremely about the participation of its advantages; and thiſ is already the caſe with the Convention. Thoſe who at preſent poſſeſſ all the power, and are infinitely the ſtrongeſt, are wits, moraliſts, and philoſophers by profeſſion, having Briſſot, Rolland, Petion, Concorcet, &c. at their head; their opponents are adventurers of a more deſperate caſt, who make up by violence what they want in numbers, and are led by Robeſpierre, Danton, Chabot, &c. &c. The only diſtinction of theſe parties is, I believe, that the firſt are vain and ſyſtematical hypocrites, who have originally corrupted the minds of the people by viſionary and inſidious doctrines, and now maintain their ſuperiority by artifice and intrigue: their opponents, equally wicked, and more daring, juſtify that turpitude which the others ſeek to diſguiſe, and appear almoſt as bad as they are. The credulous people are duped by both; while the cunning of the one, and the vehemence of the other, alternately prevail.—But ſomething too much of politics, as my deſign is in general rather to mark their effect on the people, than to enter on more immediate diſcuſſions.

Having been at the Criminal Tribunal to-day, I now recollect that I have never yet deſcribed to you the coſtume of the French Judges.—Perhapſ when I have before had occaſion to ſpeak of it, your imagination may have glided to Weſtminſter Hall, and depicted to you the ſcarlet robes and voluminous wigs of its reſpectable magiſtrates: but if you would form an idea of a magiſtrate here, you muſt bring your mind to the abſtraction of Crambo, and figure to yourſelf a Judge without either gown, wig, or any of thoſe venerable appendages. Nothing indeed can be more becoming or gallant, than this judicial accoutrement—it is black, with a ſilk cloak of the ſame colour, in the Spaniſh form, and a round hat, turned up before, with a large plume of black feathers. This, when the magiſtrate happens to be young, has a very theatrical and romantic appearance; but when it is worn by a figure a little Eſopian, or with a large buſhy perriwig, as I have ſometimes ſeen it, the effect is ſtill leſs awful; and a ſtranger, on ſeeing ſuch an apparition in the ſtreet, is tempted to ſuppoſe it a period of jubilee, and that the inhabitants are in maſquerade.

It is now the cuſtom for all people to addreſs each other by the appellation of Citizen; and whether you are a citizen or not—whether you inhabit Paris, or are a native of Peru—ſtill it is an indication of ariſtocracy, either to exact, or to uſe, any other title. This is all congruous with the ſyſtem of the day: the abuſes are real, the reform iſ imaginary. The people are flattered with ſounds, while they are loſing in eſſentials. And the permiſſion to apply the appellation of Citizen to its members, is but a poor compenſation for the deſpotiſm of a department or a municipality.

In vain are the people flattered with a chimerical equality—it cannot exiſt in a civilized ſtate, and if it could exiſt any where, it would not be in France. The French are habituated to ſubordination—they naturally look up to ſomething ſuperior—and when one claſs is degraded, it is only to give place to another.

—The pride of the nobleſſe is ſucceeded by the pride of the merchant—the influence of wealth is again realized by cheap purchaſes of the national domainſ—the abandoned abbey becomes the delight of the opulent trader, and replaces the demoliſhed chateau of the feudal inſtitution. Full of the importance which the commercial intereſt is to acquire under a republic, the wealthy man of buſineſs is eaſily reconciled to the oppreſſion of the ſuperior claſſes, and enjoys, with great dignity, hiſ new elevation. The counting-houſe of a manufacturer of woollen cloth iſ as inacceſſible as the boudoir of a Marquis; while the flowered brocade gown and well-powdered curls of the former offer a much more impoſing exterior than the chintz robe de chambre and diſhevelled locks of the more affable man of faſhion.

I have read, in ſome French author, a maxim to this effect:—"Act with your friends as though they ſhould one day be your enemies;" and the exiſting government ſeems amply to have profited by the admonition of their country-man: for notwithſtanding they affirm, that all France ſupports, and all England admires them, this does not prevent their exerciſing a moſt vigilant inquiſition over the inhabitants of both countries.—It is already ſagaciouſly hinted, that Mr. Thomas Paine may be a ſpy, and every houſeholder who receives a lodger or viſitor, and every proprietor who lets a houſe, is obliged to regiſter the names of thoſe he entertains, or who are his tenants, and to become reſponſible for their conduct. This is done at the municipality, and all who thuſ venture to change their reſidence, of whatever age, ſex, or condition, muſt preſent themſelves, and ſubmit to an examination. The power of the municipalities is indeed very great; and as they are chiefly ſelected from the lower claſs of ſhop-keepers, you may conclude that their authority is not exerciſed with much politeneſs or moderation.

The timid or indolent inhabitant of London, whoſe head has been filled with the Baſtilles and police of the ancient government, and who would aſ ſoon have ventured to Conſtantinople as to Paris, reads, in the debateſ of the Convention, that France is now the freeeſt country in the world, and that ſtrangers from all corners of it flock to offer their adorationſ in this new Temple of Liberty. Allured by theſe deſcriptions, he reſolves on the journey, willing, for once in his life, to enjoy a taſte of the bleſſing in ſublimate, which he now learns has hitherto been allowed him only in the groſs element.—He experiences a thouſand impoſitions on landing with his baggage at Calais, but he ſubmits to them without murmuring, becauſe his countrymen at Dover had, on hiſ embarkation, already kindly initiated him into this ſcience of taxing the inquiſitive ſpirit of travellers. After inſcribing his name, and rewarding the cuſtom-houſe officers for rummaging his portmanteau, he determines to amuſe himſelf with a walk about the town. The firſt centinel he encounters ſtops him, becauſe he has no cockade: he purchaſeſ one at the next ſhop, (paying according to the exigency of the caſe,) and is ſuffered to paſs on. When he has ſettled his bill at the Auberge "a l'Angloiſe," and emagines he has nothing to do but to purſue his journey, he finds he has yet to procure himſelf a paſſport. He waits an hour and an half for an officer, who at length appears, and with a rule in one hand, and a pen in the other, begins to meaſure the height, and take an inventory of the features of the aſtoniſhed ſtranger. By the time thiſ ceremony is finiſhed, the gates are ſhut, and he can proceed no farther, till the morrow. He departs early, and is awakened twice on the road to Boulogne to produce his paſſport: ſtill, however, he keeps his temper, concluding, that the new light has not yet made its way to the frontiers, and that theſe troubleſome precautions may be neceſſary near a port. He continues his route, and, by degrees, becomes habituated to this regimen of liberty; till, perhaps, on the ſecond day, the validity of hiſ paſſport is diſputed, the municipality who granted it have the reputation of ariſtocracy, or the whole is informal, and he muſt be content to wait while a meſſenger is diſpatched to have it rectified, and the officerſ eſtabliſh the ſeverity of their patriotiſm at the expence of the ſtranger.

Our traveller, at length, permitted to depart, feels his patience wonderfully diminiſhed, execrates the regulations of the coaſt, and the ignorance of ſmall towns, and determines to ſtop a few days and obſerve the progreſs of freedom at Ameins. Being a large commercial place, he here expects to behold all the happy effects of the new conſtitution; he congratulates himſelf on travelling at a period when he can procure information, and diſcuſs his political opinions, unannoyed by fears of ſtate priſons, and ſpies of the police. His landlord, however, acquaintſ him, that his appearance at the Town Houſe cannot be diſpenſed with—he attends three or four different hours of appointment, and is each time ſent away, (after waiting half an hour with the valets de ville in the antichamber,) and told that the municipal officers are engaged. As an Engliſhman, he has little reliſh for theſe ſubordinate ſovereigns, and difficult audienceſ—he hints at the next coffee-houſe that he had imagined a ſtranger might have reſted two days in a free country, without being meaſured, and queſtioned, and without detailing his hiſtory, aſ though he were ſuſpected of deſertion; and ventures on ſome implied compariſon between the ancient "Monſieur le Commandant," and the modern "Citoyen Maire."—To his utter aſtoniſhment he finds, that though there are no longer emiſſaries of the police, there are Jacobin informers; hiſ diſcourſe is reported to the municipality, his buſineſs in the town becomes the ſubject of conjecture, he is concluded to be "un homme ſanſ aveu," [One that can't give a good account of himſelf.] and arreſted aſ "ſuſpect;" and it is not without the interference of the people to whom he may have been recommended at Paris, that he is releaſed, and enabled to continue his journey.

At Paris he lives in perpetual alarm. One night he is diſturbed by a viſite domiciliaire, another by a riot—one day the people are in inſurrection for bread, and the next murdering each other at a public feſtival; and our country-man, even after making every allowance for the confuſion of a recent change, thinks himſelf very fortunate if he reacheſ England in ſafety, and will, for the reſt of his life, be ſatiſfied with ſuch a degree of liberty as is ſecured to him by the conſtitution of hiſ own country.

You ſee I have no deſign of tempting you to pay us a viſit; and, to ſpeak the truth, I think thoſe who are in England will ſhow their wiſdom by remaining there. Nothing but the ſtate of Mrs. D____'s health, and her dread of the ſea at this time of the year, detains us; for every day ſubtracts from my courage, and adds to my apprehenſions.

—Yours, &c.