Providence, April 15, 1794.
"The friendſhip of bad men turns to fear:" and in this ſingle phraſe of our popular bard is comprized the hiſtory of all the parties who have ſucceeded each other during the revolution.—Danton has been ſacrificed to Robeſpierre's jealouſy,* and Camille Deſmoulins to ſupport hiſ popularity;** and both, after ſharing in the crimes, and contributing to the puniſhment, of Hebert and his aſſociates, have followed them to the ſame ſcaffold.
* The ferocious courage of Danton had, on the 10th of Auguſt, the 2d of September, the 31ſt of May, and other occaſions, been the ductile inſtrument of Robeſpierre; but, in the courſe of their iniquitouſ connection, it ſhould ſeem, they had committed themſelves too much to each other. Danton had betrayed a deſire of more excluſively profiting by his crimes; and Robeſpierre's views been equally ambitious, though leſs daring, their mutual jealouſies had riſen to a height which rendered the ſacrifice of one party neceſſary—and Robeſpierre had the addreſs to ſecure himſelf, by ſtriking the firſt blow. They had ſupped in the country, and returned together to Paris, on the night Danton was arreſted; and, it may be ſuppoſed, that in this interview, which was intended to produce a reconciliation, they had been convinced that neither was to be truſted by the other. ** There can be no doubt but Robeſpierre had encouraged Camille Deſmoulins to publiſh his paper, intitled "The Old Cordelier," in which ſome tranſlations from Tacitus, deſcriptive of every kind of tyranny, were applied to the times, and a change of ſyſtem indirectly propoſed. The publication became highly popular, except with the Convention and the Jacobins; theſe, however, it waſ requiſite for Robeſpierre to conciliate; and Camille Deſmoulins waſ ſacrificed, to prove that he did not favour the obnoxious moderation of his friend.
I know not if one's heart gain any thing by this habitual contemplation of ſucceſſive victims, who ought not to inſpire pity, and whom juſtice and humanity forbid one to regret.—How many parties have fallen, who ſeem to have laboured only to tranſmit a dear-bought tyranny, which they had not time to enjoy themſelves, to their ſucceſſors: The French revolutioniſts may, indeed, adopt the motto of Virgil's Bees, "Not for ourſelves, but for you." The monſtrous powers claimed for the Convention by the Briſſotines,* with the hope of excluſively exerciſing them, were fatal to themſelveſ—the party that overthrew the Briſſotines in its turn became inſignificant—and a ſmall number of them only, under the deſcription of Committees of Public Welfare and General Safety, gradually uſurped the whole authority.
* The victorious Briſſotines, after the 10th of Auguſt, availing themſelves of the ſtupor of one part of the people, and the fanaticiſm of the other, required that the new Convention might be entruſted with unlimited powers. Not a thouſandth portion of thoſe who elected the members, perhaps, comprehended the dreadful extent of ſuch a demand, as abſurd as it has proved fatal.—"Tout pouvoir ſans bornes ne fauroit etre legitime, parce qu'il n'a jamais pu avoir d'origine legitime, car nous ne pouvons pas donner a un autre plus de pouvoir ſur nous que nous n'en avons nous-memeſ" [Monteſquieu.]:—that is, the power which we accord to others, or which we have over ourſelves, cannot exceed the bounds preſcribed by the immutable laws of truth and juſtice. The united voice of the whole French nation could not beſtow on their repreſentatives a right to murder or oppreſs one innocent man.
—Even of theſe, ſeveral have already periſhed; and in the hands of Robeſpierre, and half a dozen others of equal talents and equal atrocity, but leſs cunning, center at preſent all the fruits of ſo many miſeries, and ſo many crimes.
In all theſe conflicts of party, the victory ſeems hitherto to have remained with the moſt artful, rather than the moſt able; and it is under the former title that Robeſpierre, and his colleagues in the Committee of Public Welfare, are now left inheritors of a power more deſpotic than that exerciſed in Japan.—Robeſpierre is certainly not deficient in abilities, but they are not great in proportion to the influence they have acquired him. They may, perhaps, be more properly called ſingular than great, and conſiſt in the art of appropriating to his own advantage both the events of chance and the labours of others, and of captivating the people by an exterior of ſevere virtue, which a cold heart enableſ him to aſſume, and which a profligacy, not the effect of ſtrong paſſions, but of ſyſtem, is eaſily ſubjected to. He is not eloquent, nor are hiſ ſpeeches, as compoſitions,* equal to thoſe of Collot d'Herbais, Barrere, or Billaud Varennes; but, by contriving to reſerve himſelf for extraordinary occaſions, ſuch as announcing plots, victories, and ſyſtemſ of government, he is heard with an intereſt which finally becomeſ tranſferred from his ſubject to himſelf.**
* The moſt celebrated members of the Convention are only readers of ſpeeches, compoſed with great labour, either by themſelves or others; and I think it is diſtinguiſhable, that many are manufactured by the ſame hand. The ſtyle and ſpirit of Lindet, Barrere, and Carnot, ſeem to be in common. ** The following paſſages, from a ſpeech of Dubois Crance, who may be ſuppoſed a competent judge, at once furniſh an idea of Robeſpierre's oratory, exhibit a leading feature in his character, and expoſe ſome of the arts by which the revolutionary deſpotiſm waſ maintained: "Rapportant tout a lui ſeul, juſqu'a la patrie, il n'en parla jamais que pour ſ'en deſigner comme l'unique defenſeur: otez de ſeſ longs diſcours tout ce qui n'a rapport qu'a ſon perſonnel, vous n'y trouverez plus que de ſeches applications de prinipes connus, et ſurtout de phraſes preparees pour amener encore ſon eloge. Vouſ l'avez juge timide, parce que ſon imagination, que l'on croyait ardente, qui n'etait que feroce, paraſſait exagerer ſouvent les maux de ſon pays. C'etait une jonglerie: il ne croyait ni aux conſpirations don't il faiſait tant d'etalage, ni aux poignardſ aux-quels il feignoit de ſſe devouer; mais il vouloit que leſ citoyens fuſſſent conſtamment en defiance l'un de l'autre," &c. "Affecting to conſider all things, even the fate of the country, aſ depending on himſelf alone, he never ſpoke of it but with a view to point himſelf out its principal defender.—If you take away from hiſ long harangues all that regards him perſonally, you will find only dry applications of familiar principles, and, above all, thoſe ſtudied turns, which were artfully prepared to introduce his own eternal panegyric.—You ſuppoſed him timid becauſe his imagination (which was not merely ardent, as was ſuppoſed, but ferocious) ſeemed often to exaggerate the miſfortunes of his country.—This was a mere trick: he believed neither in the conſpiracies he made ſo great a parade of, nor in the poignards to which he pretended to devote himſelf as a victim.—His real deſign was to infuſe into the mindſ of all men an unceaſing diffidence of each other."
One cannot ſtudy the characters of theſe men, and the revolution, without wonder; and, after an hour of ſuch ſcribbling, I wake to the ſcene around me, and my wonder is not a little increaſed, at the idea that the fate of ſuch an individual as myſelf ſhould be at all dependent on either.—My friend Mad. de ____ is ill,* and taken to the hoſpital, ſo that having no longer the care of diſſipating her ennui, I am at full liberty to indulge my own.
* I have generally made uſe of the titles and diſtinctions by which the people I mention were known before the revolution; for, beſideſ that I found it difficult to habituate my pen to the republican ſyſtem of levelling, the perſon to whom theſe letters were addreſſed would not have known who was meant by the new appellations. It is, however, to be obſerved, that, except in private ariſtocratic intercourſe, the word Citizen was in general uſe; and that thoſe who had titles relinquiſhed them and aſſumed their family names.
—Yet I know not how it is, but, as I have before obſerved to you, I do not ennuye—my mind is conſtantly occupied, though my heart is vacant— curioſity ſerves inſtead of intereſt, and I really find it ſufficiently amuſing to conjecture how long my head may remain on my ſhoulders.—You will, I dare ſay, agree with me that any doubts on ſuch a ſubject are very well calculated to remove the tranquil ſort of indifference which produces ennui; though, to judge by the greater part of my fellow-priſoners, one would not think ſo.—There is ſomething ſurely in the character of the French, which makes them differ both in proſperity and adverſity from other people. Here are many amongſt us who ſee little more in the loſs of their liberty than a privation of their uſual amuſements; and I have known ſome who had the good fortune to obtain their releaſe at noon, exhibit themſelves at the theatre at night.—God knows how ſuch minds are conſtituted: for my part, when ſome conſolatory illuſion reſtores me to freedom, I aſſociate with it no idea of poſitive pleaſure, but long for a ſort of intermediate ſtate, which may repoſe my haraſſed faculties, and in which mere comfort and ſecurity are portrayed as luxuries. After being ſo long deprived of the decent accommodationſ of life, ſecluded from the intercourſe which conſtitutes its beſt enjoyments, trembling for my own fate, and hourly lamenting that of my friends, the very thoughts of tumult or gaiety ſeem oppreſſive, and the deſire of peace, for the moment, baniſhes every other. One muſt have no heart, after ſo many ſufferings, not to prefer the caſtle of Indolence to the palace of Armida.
The coarſe organs of an Argus at the door, who is all day employed in calling to my high-born companions by the republican appellations of "Citoyen," and "Citoyenne," has juſt interrupted me by a ſummons to receive a letter from my unfortunate friends at Arras.—It was given me open;* of courſe they ſay nothing of their ſituation, though I have reaſon to believe it is dreadful.
* The opening of letters was now ſo generally avowed, that people who correſponded on buſineſs, and were deſirous their letters ſhould be delivered, put them in the poſt without ſealing; otherwiſe they were often torn in opening, thrown aſide, or detained, to ſave the trouble of peruſing.
—They have now written to me for aſſiſtance, which I have not the meanſ of affording them. Every thing I have is under ſequeſtration; and the difficulty which attends the negociating any drafts drawn upon England, has made it nearly impoſſible to procure money in the uſual way, even if I were not confined. The friendſhip of Mad. de ____ will be little available to me. Her extenſive fortune, before frittered to mere competency by the extortions of the revolution, now ſcarcely ſupplies her own wants; and her tenants humanely take the opportunity of her preſent diſtreſs to avoid paying their rent.*
* In ſome inſtances ſervants or tenants have been known to ſeize on portions of land for their own uſe—in others the country municipalities exacted as the price of a certificate of civiſm, (without which no releaſe from priſon could be obtained,) ſuch leaſes, lands, or privileges, as they thought the embarraſſments of their landlords would induce them to grant. Almoſt every where the houſes of perſons arreſted were pilfered either by their own ſervants or the agents of the republic. I have known an elegant houſe put in requiſition to erect blackſmithſ' forges in for the uſe of the army, and another filled with tailors employed in making ſoldierſ' clothes.—Houſes were likewiſe not unfrequently abandoned by the ſervants through fear of ſharing the fate of their maſters, and ſometimes expoſed equally by the arreſt of thoſe who had been left in charge, in order to extort diſcoveries of plate, money, &c. the concealment of which they might be ſuppoſed privy to.
—So that I have no reſource, either for myſelf or Mrs. D____, but the ſale of a few trinkets, which I had fortunately ſecreted on my firſt arreſt. How are we to exiſt, and what an exiſtence to be ſolicitouſ about! In gayer moments, and, perhaps, a little tinctured by romantic refinement, I have thought Dr. Johnſon made poverty too excluſively the ſubject of compaſſion: indeed I believe he uſed to ſay, it was the only evil he really felt for. This, to one who has known only mental ſuffering, appears the notion of a coarſe mind; but I doubt whether, the firſt time we are alarmed by the fear of want, the dread of dependence does not render us in part his converts. The opinion of our Engliſh ſage is more natural than we may at firſt imagine; or why is it that we are affected by the ſimple diſtreſſes of Jane Shore, beyond thoſe of any other heroine?—Yours.