Providence, Dec. 20, 1793.
"All places that are viſited by the eye of Heaven, are to the wiſe man happy havens." If Shakſpeare's philoſophy be orthodox, the French have, it muſt be confeſſed, many claims to the reputation of a wiſe people; and though you know I always diſputed their pretenſions to general gaiety, yet I acknowledge that miſfortune does not deprive them of the ſhare they poſſeſs, and, if one may judge by appearances, they have at leaſt the habit, more than any other nation, of finding content under ſituationſ with which it ſhould ſeem incompatible. We are here between ſix and ſeven hundred, of all ages and of all ranks, taken from our homes, and from all that uſually makes the comfort of life, and crowded together under many of the inflictions that conſtitute its miſery; yet, in the midſt of all this, we fiddle, dreſs, rhyme, and viſit as ceremoniouſly aſ though we had nothing to diſturb us. Our beaux, after being correctly frizz'd and powdered behind ſome door, compliment the belle juſt eſcaped from a toilet, performed amidſt the apparatus of the kitchen; three or four beds are piled one upon another to make room for as many card-tables; and the wits of the priſon, who are all the morning employed in writing doleful placets to obtain their liberty, in the evening celebrate the loſs of it in bout-rimees and acroſtics.
I ſaw an aſs at the Corps de Garde this morning laden with violins and muſic, and a female priſoner ſeldom arrives without her complement of bandboxes.—Embarraſſed, ſtifled as we are by our numbers, it does not prevent a daily importation of lap-dogs, who form as conſequential a part of the community in a priſon, as in the moſt ſuperb hotel. The faithful valet, who has followed the fortunes of his maſter, does not ſo much ſhare his diſtreſſes as contribute to his pleaſure by adorning hiſ perſon, or, rather, his head, for, excepting the article of hair-dreſſing, the beaux here are not elaborate. In ſhort, there is an indifference, a frivolity, in the French character, which, in circumſtances like the preſent, appears unaccountable. But man is not always conſiſtent with himſelf, and there are occaſions in which the French are nothing leſs than philoſophers. Under all theſe externals of levity, they are a very prudent people, and though they ſeem to bear with infinite fortitude many of the evils of life, there are ſome in which their ſenſibility is not to be queſtioned. At the death of a relation, or the loſs of liberty, I have obſerved that a few hourſ ſuffice, pour prendre ſon parti; [To make up his mind.] but on any occaſion where his fortune has ſuffered, the livelieſt Frenchman is au deſeſpoir for whole days. Whenever any thing is to be loſt or gained, all his characteriſtic indifference vaniſhes, and his attention becomeſ mentally concentrated, without diſſipating the habitual ſmile of hiſ countenance. He may ſometimes be deceived through deficiency of judgment, but I believe not often by unguardedneſs; and, in a matter of intereſt, a petit maitre of five-and-twenty might tout en badinage [All in the way of pleaſantry.] maintain his ground againſt a whole ſynagogue.—This diſpoſition is not remarkable only in affairs that may be ſuppoſed to require it, but extends to the minuteſt objects; and the ſame oeconomy which watches over the maſs of a Frenchman's eſtate, guards with equal ſolicitude the menu property of a log of wood, or a hen's neſt.
There is at this moment a general ſcarcity of proviſions, and we who are confined are, of courſe, particularly inconvenienced by it; we do not even get bread that is eatable, and it is curious to obſerve with what circumſpection every one talks of his reſources. The poſſeſſor of a few eggs takes care not to expoſe them to the eye of his neighbour; and a ſlice of white bread is a donation of ſo much conſequence, that thoſe who procure any for themſelves do not often put their friends to the pain either of accepting or refuſing it.
Mad. de ____ has been unwell for ſome days, and I could not help giving a hint to a relation of her's whom we found here, and who has frequent ſupplies of bread from the country, that the bread we eat was peculiarly inimical to her; but I gained only a look of repulſive apprehenſion, and a cold remark that it was very difficult to get good bread—"et que c'etoit bien malheureux." [And that it certainly was very unfortunate.] I own this kind of ſelfiſhneſs is increaſed by a ſituation where our wants are numerous, and our enjoyments few; and the great diſtinctions of meum and tuum, which at all times have occaſioned ſo much bad fellowſhip in the world, are here perhaps more rigidly obſerved than any where elſe; yet, in my opinion, a cloſe-hearted conſideration has always formed an eſſential and a predominant quality in the French character.
People here do not ruin themſelves, as with us, by hoſpitality; and examples of that thoughtleſs profuſion which we cenſure and regret, without being able entirely to condemn, are very rare indeed. In France it is not uncommon to ſee a man apparently diſſipated in his conduct, and licentious in his morals, yet regular, even to parſimony, in hiſ pecuniary concerns.—He oeconomizes with his vices, and indulges in all the exceſſes of faſhionable life, with the ſame ſyſtem of order that accumulates the fortune of a Dutch miſer. Lord Cheſterfield waſ doubtleſs ſatiſfied, that while his ſon remained in France, his preceptſ would have all the benefit of living illuſtration; yet it is not certain that this cautious and reflecting licentiouſneſs has any merit over the more imprudent irregularity of an Engliſh ſpendthrift: the one is, however, likely to be more durable than the other; and, in fact, the character of an old libertine is more frequent in France than in England.
If oeconomy preſide even over the vices of the rich and faſhionable, you may conclude that the habits of the middling ranks of people of ſmall fortunes are ſtill more ſcrupulouſly ſubjected to its influence. A French menage [Houſehold.] is a practical treatiſe on the art of ſaving—a ſpirit of oeconomy pervades and directs every part of it, and that ſo uniformly, ſo generally, and ſo conſiſtently, as not to make the ſame impreſſion on a ſtranger as would a ſingle inſtance where the whole was not conducted on the ſame principle. A traveller is not ſo forcibly ſtricken by this part of the French character, becauſe it is more real than apparent, and does not ſeem the effect of reaſoning or effort, which is never conſequential, but rather that of inclination and the natural courſe of things.
A degree of parſimony, which an Engliſhman, who does not affect the reputation of a Codrus, could not acquire without many ſelf-combats, appears in a Frenchman a matter of preference and convenience, and till one has lived long and familiarly in the country, one is apt to miſtake principles for cuſtoms, and character for manners, and to attribute many things to local which have their real ſource in moral cauſes.—The traveller who ſees nothing but gay furniture, and gay clothes, and partakes on invitation of ſplendid repaſts, returns to England the enamoured panegyriſt of French hoſpitality.—On a longer reſidence and more domeſtic intercourſe, all this is diſcoverable to be merely the ſacrifice of parſimony to vanity—the ſolid comforts of life are unknown, and hoſpitality ſeldom extends beyond an occaſional and oſtentatiouſ reception. The gilding, painting, glaſſes, and ſilk hangings of a French apartment, are only a gay diſguiſe; and a houſe, which to the eye may be attractive even to ſplendour, often has not one room that an Engliſhman would find tolerably convenient. Every thing intended for uſe rather than ſhew is ſcanty and ſordid—all is beau, magnifique, gentil, or ſuperb, [Fine magnificent, genteel, or ſuperb.] and nothing comfortable. The French have not the word, or its ſynonime, in their language.
In France, clothes are almoſt as durable as furniture, and the gaiety which twenty or thirty years ago we were complaiſant enough to admire iſ far from being expenſive. People are not more than five or ſix hours a day in their gala habits, and the whole of this period is judiciouſly choſen between the hours of repaſt, ſo that no riſk in incurred by accidents at table. Then the caprices of faſhion, which in England are ſo various and deſpotic, have here a more limited influence: the form of a dreſs changes as long as the material is convertible, and when it haſ outlaſted the poſſibility of adaptation to a reigning mode, it is not on that account rejected, but is generally worn in ſome way or other till baniſhed by the more rational motive of its decay. All the expences of tea-viſits, breakfaſt-loungings, and chance-dinners, are avoided—an evening viſit is paſſed entirely at cards, a breakfaſt in form even for the family is unuſual, and there are very few houſes where you could dine without being previouſly engaged. I am, indeed, certain, that (unleſs in large eſtabliſhments) the calculation for diurnal ſupply is ſo exact, that the intruſion of a ſtranger would be felt by the whole family. I muſt, however, do them the juſtice to ſay, that on ſuch occaſions, and where they find the thing to be inevitable, they put the beſt face poſſible on it, and the gueſt is entertained, if not plentifully, and with a very ſincere welcome, at leaſt with ſmiles and compliments. The French, indeed, allow, that they live leſs hoſpitably than the Engliſh: but then they ſay they are not ſo rich; and it is true, property is not ſo general, nor ſo much diffuſed, as with us. This is, however, only relative, and you will not ſuſpect me of being ſo uncandid as to make compariſons without allowing for every difference which is the effect of neceſſity. All my remarks of this kind are made after an unprejudiced compariſon of the people of the ſame rank or fortune in the two countries;—yet even the moſt liberal examination muſt end by concluding, that the oeconomy of the French too nearly approaches to meanneſs, and that their civility is oſtentatious, perhaps often either intereſted, or even verbal.
You already exclaim, why, in the year 1793, you are characterizing a nation in the ſtyle of Salmon! and implying a panegyric on the moral of the School for Scandal! I plead to the firſt part of the charge, and ſhall hereafter defend my opinion againſt the more poliſhed writers who have ſucceeded Salmon. For the moral of the School for Scandal, I have always conſidered it as the ſeal of humanity on a comedy which would otherwiſe be perfection.
It is not the oeconomy of the French that I am cenſuring, but their vanity, which, engroſſing all their means of expence, prefers ſhow to accommodation, and the parade of a ſumptuous repaſt three or four times a year to a plainer but more frequent hoſpitality.—I am far from being the advocate of extravagance, or the enemy of domeſtic order; and the liberality which is circumſcribed only by prudence ſhall not find in me a cenſurer.
My ideas on the French character and manner of living may not be unuſeful to ſuch of my countrymen as come to France with the project of retrieving their affairs; for it is very neceſſary they ſhould be informed, that it is not ſo much the difference in the price of things, which makes a reſidence here oeconomical, as a conformity to the habits of the country; and if they were not deterred by a falſe ſhame from a temporary adoption of the ſame ſyſtem in England, their object might often be obtained without leaving it. For this reaſon it may be remarked, that the Engliſh who bring Engliſh ſervants, and perſiſt in their Engliſh mode of living, do not often derive very ſolid advantages from their exile, and their abode in France is rather a retreat from their creditors than the meanſ of paying their debts.
Adieu.—You will not be ſorry that I have been able for a moment to forget our perſonal ſufferings, and the miſerable politics of the country. The details of the former are not pleaſant, and the latter grow every day more inexplicable.