Читать книгу A Residence in France During the Years 1792, 1793, 1794 and 1795, Complete - Charlotte Biggs - Страница 39

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Dear Brother,

I have thought it hitherto a ſelf evident propoſition—that of all the principles which can be inculcated in the human mind, that of liberty iſ leaſt ſuſceptible of propagation by force. Yet a Council of Philoſopherſ (diſciples of Rouſſeau and Voltaire) have ſent forth Dumouriez, at the head of an hundred thouſand men, to inſtruct the people of Flanders in the doctrine of freedom. Such a miſſionary is indeed invincible, and the defenceleſs towns of the Low Countries have been converted and pillaged [By the civil agents of the executive power.] by a benevolent cruſade of the philanthropic aſſertors of the rights of man. Theſe warlike Propagandiſtes, however, do not always convince without experiencing reſiſtance, and ignorance ſometimes oppoſes, with great obſtinacy, the progreſs of truth. The logic of Dumouriez did not enforce conviction at Gemappe, but at the expence of fifteen thouſand of his own army, and, doubtleſs, a proportionate number of the unconverted.

Here let me forbear every expreſſion tending to levity: the heart recoilſ at ſuch a ſlaughter of human victims; and, if a momentary ſmile be excited by theſe Quixotiſms, it is checked by horror at their conſequenceſ!—Humanity will lament ſuch deſtruction; but it will likewiſe be indignant to learn, that, in the official account of thiſ battle, the killed were eſtimated at three hundred, and the wounded at ſix!—But, if the people be ſacrificed, they are not deceived. The diſabled ſufferers, who are returning to their homes in different partſ of the republic, betray the turpitude of the government, and expoſe the fallacy of theſe bloodleſs victories of the gazettes. The pedants of the Convention are not unlearned in the hiſtory of the Praetorian Bands and the omnipotence of armies; and an offenſive war is undertaken to give occupation to the ſoldiers, whoſe inactivity might produce reflection, or whoſe diſcontent might prove fatal to the new order of things.—Attemptſ are made to divert the public mind from the real miſery experienced at home, by relations of uſeleſs conqueſts abroad; the ſubſtantial loſſes, which are the price of theſe imaginary benefits, are palliated or concealed; and the circumſtances of an engagement is known but by individual communication, and when ſubſequent events have nearly effaced the remembrance of it.—By theſe artifices, and from motives at leaſt not better, and, perhaps, worſe than thoſe I have mentioned, will population be diminiſhed, and agriculture impeded: France will be involved in preſent diſtreſs, and conſigned to future want; and the deluded people be puniſhed in the miſeries of their own country, becauſe their unprincipled rulers have judged it expedient to carry war and devaſtation into another.

One of the diſtinguiſhing features in the French character is ſang froid—ſcarcely a day paſſes that it does not force itſelf on one'ſ obſervation. It is not confined to the thinking part of the people, who know that paſſion and irritability avail nothing; nor to thoſe who, not thinking at all, are, of courſe, not moved by any thing: but is equally poſſeſſed by every rank and condition, whether you claſs them by their mental endowments, or their temporal poſſeſſions. They not only (as, it muſt be confeſſed, is too commonly the caſe in all countries,) bear the calamities of their friends with great philoſophy, but are nearly aſ reaſonable under the preſſure of their own. The grief of a Frenchman, at leaſt, partakes of his imputed national complaiſance, and, far from intruding itſelf on ſociety, is always ready to accept of conſolation, and join in amuſement. If you ſay your wife or relations are dead, they replay coldly, "Il faut ſe conſoler:" or if they viſit you in an illneſs, "Il faut prendre patience." Or tell them you are ruined, and their features then become ſomething more attenuated, the ſhoulderſ ſomething more elevated, and a more commiſerating tone confeſſes, "C'eſt bien mal beureux—Mai enfin que voulez vous?" ["It's unlucky, but what can be ſaid in ſuch caſes?"] and in the ſame inſtant they ill recount ſome good fortune at a card party, or expatiate on the excellence of a ragout.—Yet, to do them juſtice, they only offer for your comfort the ſame arguments they would have found efficacious in promoting their own.

This diſpoſition, which preſerves the tranquillity of the rich, indurateſ the ſenſe of wretchedneſs in the poor; it ſupplies the place of fortitude in the one, and that of patience in the other; and, while it enables both to endure their own particular diſtreſſes, it makes them ſubmit quietly to a weight and exceſs of public evils, which any nation but their own would ſink under, or reſiſt. Amongſt ſhopkeepers, ſervants, &c. without incurring perſonal odium, it has the effect of what would be deemed in England impenetrable aſſurance. It forces pertinaceouſly an article not wanted, and preſerves the inflexibility of the features at a detected impoſition: it inſpires ſervants with arguments in defence of every miſdemeanour in the whole domeſtic catalogue; it renders them inſenſible either of their negligences or the conſequences of them; and endows them with a happy facility of contradicting with the moſt obſequiouſ politeneſs.

A gentleman of our acquaintances dined at a table d'Hote, where the company were annoyed by a very uncommon and offenſive ſmell. On cutting up a fowl, they diſcovered the ſmell to have been occaſioned by its being dreſſed with out any other preparation than that of depluming. They immediately ſent for the hoſt, and told him, that the fowl had been dreſſed without having been drawn: but, far from appearing diſconcerted, as one might expect, he only replied, "Cela ſe pourroit bien, Monſieur." ["'Tis very poſſible, Sir."] Now an Engliſh Boniface, even though he had already made his fortune, would have been mortified at ſuch an incident, and all his eloquence would ſcarcely have produced an unfaultering apology.

Whether this national indifference originate in a phyſical or a moral cauſe, from an obtuſeneſs in their corporeal formation or a perfection in their intellectual one, I do not pretend to decide; but whatever be the cauſe, the effect is enjoyed with great modeſty. So little do the French pique themſelves on this valuable ſtoiciſm, that they acknowledge being more ſubject to that human weakneſs called feeling, than any other people in the world. All their writers abound in pathetic exclamations, ſentimental phraſes, and alluſions to "la ſenſibilite Francaiſe," aſ though they imagined it proverbial. You can ſcarcely hold a converſation with a Frenchman without hearing him detail, with an expreſſion of feature not always analogous, many very affecting ſentences. He iſ deſole, deſeſpere, or afflige—he has le coeur trop ſenſible, le coeur ſerre, or le coeur navre; [Afflicted—in deſpair—too feeling a heart—his heart is wrung or wounded.] and the well-placing of theſe dolorouſ aſſertions depends rather upon the judgement and eloquence of the ſpeaker, than the ſeriouſneſs of the caſe which gives riſe to them. For inſtance, the deſpair and deſolation of him who has loſt his money, and of him whoſe head is ill dreſt, are of different degrees, but the expreſſions are uſually the ſame. The debates of the Convention, the debates of the Jacobins, and all the public prints, are fraught with proofs of this appropriated ſuſceptibility, and it is often attributed to perſons and occaſions where we ſhould not much expect to find it. A quarrel between the legiſlators as to who was moſt concerned in promoting the maſſacres of September, is reconciled with a "ſweet and enthuſiaſtic exceſs of fraternal tenderneſs." When the clubs diſpute on the expediency of an inſurrection, or the neceſſity of a more frequent employment of the guillotine, the debate terminates by overflowing of ſenſibility from all the members who have engaged in it!

At the aſſaſſinations in one of the priſons, when all the other miſerable victims had periſhed, the mob diſcovered one Jonneau, a member of the Aſſembly, who had been confined for kicking another member named Grangeneuve.* As the maſſacrers probably had no orders on the ſubject, he was brought forth, from amidſt heaps of murdered companions, and a meſſenger diſpatched to the Aſſembly, (which during theſe ſcenes met aſ uſual,) to enquire if they acknowledged Jonneau as a member. A decree was paſſed in the affirmative, and Jonneau brought by the aſſaſſins, with the decree faſtened on his breaſt, in triumph to his colleagues, who, we are told, at this inſtance of reſpect for themſelves, ſhed tears of tenderneſs and admiration at the conduct of monſters, the ſight of whom ſhould ſeem revolting to human nature.

* When the maſſacres began, the wife and friends of Jonneau petitioned Grangeneuve on their knees to conſent to his enlargement; but Grangeneuve was implacable, and Jonneau continued in priſon till releaſed by the means above mentioned. It is obſervable, that at this dreadful moment the utmoſt ſtrictneſs was obſerved, and every form literally enforced in granting the diſcharge of a priſoner. A ſuſpenſion of all laws, human and divine, was allowed to the aſſaſſins, while thoſe only that ſecured them their victims were rigidly adhered to.

Perhaps the real ſang froid I have before noticed, and theſe pretenſionſ to ſenſibility, are a natural conſequence one or the other. It is the hiſtory of the beaſt's confeſſion—we have only to be particularly deficient in any quality, to make us ſolicitous for the reputation of it; and after a long habit of deceiving others we finiſh by deceiving ourſelves. He who feels no compaſſion for the diſtreſſes of hiſ neighbour, knows that ſuch indifference is not very eſtimable; he therefore ſtudies to diſguiſe the coldneſs of his heart by the exaggeration of his language, and ſupplies, by an affected exceſs of ſentiment, the total abſence of it.—The gods have not (as you know) made me poetical, nor do I often tax your patience with a ſimile, but I think this French ſenſibility is to genuine feeling, what their paſte is to the diamond—it gratifies the vanity of the wearer, and deceives the eye of the ſuperficial obſerver, but is of little uſe or value, and when tried by the fire of adverſity quickly diſappears.

You are not much obliged to me for this long letter, as I own I have ſcribbled rather for my own amuſement than with a view to yours.— Contrary to our expectation, the trial of the King has begun; and, though I cannot properly be ſaid to have any real intereſt in the affairs of this country, I take a very ſincere one in the fate of its unfortunate Monarch—indeed our whole houſe has worn an appearance of dejection ſince the commencement of the buſineſs. Moſt people ſeem to expect it will terminate favourably, and, I believe, there are few who do not wiſh it. Even the Convention ſeem at preſent diſpoſed to be merciful; and as they judge now, ſo may they be judged hereafter!

—Yours.