November 19, 1793.
The Engliſh in general, eſpecially of late years, have been taught to entertain very formidable notions of the Baſtille and other ſtate priſonſ of the ancient government, and they were, no doubt, horrid enough; yet I have not hitherto been able to diſcover that thoſe of the new republic are any way preferable. The only difference is, that the great number of priſoners which, for want of room, are obliged to be heaped together, makes it impoſſible to exclude them as formerly from communication, and, inſtead of being maintained at the public expence, they now, with great difficulty, are able to procure wherewithal to eat at their own. Our preſent habitation is an immenſe building, about a quarter of a mile from the town, intended originally for the common gaol of the province. The ſituation is damp and unwholeſome, and the water ſo bad, that I ſhould ſuppoſe a long continuance here of ſuch a number of priſoners muſt be productive of endemical diſorders. Every avenue to the houſe is guarded, and no one is permitted to ſtop and look up at the windows, under pain of becoming a reſident. We are ſtrictly prohibited from all external intercourſe, except by writing; and every ſcrap of paper, though but an order for a dinner, paſſes the inquiſition of three different people before it reaches its deſtination, and, of courſe, many letters and noteſ are miſlaid, and never ſent at all.—There is no court or garden in which the priſoners are allowed to walk, and the only exerciſe they can take iſ in damp paſſages, or a ſmall yard, (perhaps thirty feet ſquare,) which often ſmells ſo deteſtably, that the atmoſphere of the houſe itſelf iſ leſs mephitic.
Our fellow-captives are a motley collection of the victims of nature, of juſtice, and of tyranny—of lunatics who are inſenſible of their ſituation, of thieves who deſerve it, and of political criminals whoſe guilt is the accident of birth, the imputation of wealth, or the profeſſion of a clergyman. Among the latter is the Biſhop of Amiens, whom I recollect to have mentioned in a former letter. You will wonder why a conſtitutional Biſhop, once popular with the democratic party, ſhould be thus treated. The real motive was, probably, to degrade in hiſ perſon a miniſter of religion—the oſtenſible one, a diſpute with Dumont at the Jacobin club. As the times grew alarming, the Biſhop, perhaps, thought it politic to appear at the club, and the Repreſentative meeting him there one evening, began to interrogate him very rudely with regard to his opinion of the marriage of prieſts. M. Dubois replied, that when it was officially incumbent on him to explain himſelf, he would do ſo, but that he did not think the club a place for ſuch diſcuſſions, or ſomething to this purpoſe. "Tu prevariques donc!—Je t'arrete ſur le champ:" ["What, you prevaricate!—I arreſt you inſtantly.">[ the Biſhop was accordingly arreſted at the inſtant, and conducted to the Bicetre, without even being ſuffered to go home and furniſh himſelf with neceſſaries; and the ſeals being immediately put on his effects, he haſ never been able to obtain a change of linen and clothes, or any thing elſe—this too at a time when the penſions of the clergy are ill paid, and every article of clothing ſo dear as to be almoſt unpurchaſeable by moderate fortunes, and when thoſe who might otherwiſe be diſpoſed to aid or accommodate their friends, abandon them through fear of being implicated in their miſfortunes.
But the Biſhop, yet in the vigour of life, is better capable of enduring theſe hardſhips than moſt of the poor prieſts with whom he is aſſociated: the greater number of them are very old men, with venerable grey lockſ— and their tattered clerical habits, ſcanty meals, and wretched beds, give me many an heart-ache. God ſend the conſtant ſight of ſo much miſery may not render me callouſ!—It is certain, there are people here, who, whatever their feelings might have been on this occaſion at firſt, ſeem now little affected by it. Thoſe who are too much familiarized with ſcenes of wretchedneſs, as well as thoſe to whom they are unknown, are not often very ſuſceptible; and I am ſometimes diſpoſed to cavil with our natures, that the ſufferings which ought to excite our benevolence, and the proſperity that enables us to relieve them, ſhould ever have a contrary effect. Yet this is ſo true, that I have ſcarcely ever obſerved even the poor conſiderate towards each other—and the rich, if they are frequently charitable, are not always compaſſionate.*
* Our ſituation at the Bicetre, though terrible for people unuſed to hardſhips or confinement, and in fact, wretched as perſonal inconvenience could make it, was yet Elyſium, compared to the priſons of other departments. At St. Omer, the priſoners were frequently diſturbed at midnight by the entrance of men into their apartments, who, with the deteſtable enſign of their order, (red caps,) and pipes in their mouths, came by way of frolic to ſearch their pockets, trunks, &c.—At Montreuil, the Maiſons d'Arret were under the direction of a Commiſſary, whoſe behaviour to the female priſoners was too atrocious for recital—two young women, in particular, who refuſed to purchaſe milder treatment, were locked up in a room for ſeventeen days.—Soon after I left Arras, every priſon became a den of horror. The miſerable inhabitants were ſubject to the agents of Le Bon, whoſe avarice, cruelty, and licentiouſneſs, were beyond any thing a humane mind can imagine. Sometimes the houſes were ſuddenly ſurrounded by an armed force, the priſonerſ turned out in the depth of winter for ſeveral hours into an open court, during the operation of robbing them of their pocket-books, buckles, ear-rings, or whatever article of value they had about them. At other times they were viſited by the ſame military array, and deprived of their linen and clothes. Their wine and proviſionſ were likewiſe taken from them in the ſame manner—wives were ſeparated from their huſbands, parents from their children, old men treated with the moſt ſavage barbarity, and young women with an indecency ſtill more abominable. All communication, either by writing or otherwiſe, was often prohibited for many days together, and an order was once given to prevent even the entry of proviſions, which was not revoked till the priſoners became abſolutely diſtreſſed. At the Hotel Dieu they were forbidden to draw more than a ſingle jug of water in twenty-four hours. At the Providence, the well was left three days without a cord, and when the unfortunate females confined there procured people to beg water of the neighbours, they were refuſed, "becauſe it was for priſoners, and if Le Bon heard of it he might be diſpleaſed!" Windows were blocked up, not to prevent eſcape, but to exclude air; and when the general ſcarcity rendered it impoſſible for the priſoners to procure ſufficient food for their ſupport, their ſmall portions were diminiſhed at the gate, under pretext of ſearching for letters, &c. —People, reſpectable both for their rank and character, were employed to clean the priſons and privies, while their low and inſolent tyrants looked on and inſulted them. On an occaſion when one of the Maiſons d'Arrets was on fire, guards were planted round, with orders to fire upon thoſe that ſhould attempt to eſcape.—My memory has but too faithfully recorded theſe and ſtill greater horrors; but curioſity would be gratified but too dearly by the relation. I added the above note ſome months after writing the letter to which it is annexed.