Providence, Jan. 29.
We are now quite domeſticated here, though in a very miſerable way, without fire, and with our mattreſſes, on the boards; but we nevertheleſſ adopt the ſpirit of the country, and a total abſence of comfort does not prevent us from amuſing ourſelves. My friend knits, and draws landſcapeſ on the backs of cards; and I have eſtabliſhed a correſpondence with an old bookſeller, who ſends me treatiſes of chemiſtry and fortifications, inſtead of poetry and memoirs. I endeavoured at firſt to borrow books of our companions, but this reſource was ſoon exhauſted, and the whole priſon ſupplied little more than a novel of Florian's, Le Voyage du jeune Anarcharſis, and ſome of the philoſophical romances of Voltaire.—They ſay it ennuyes them to read; and I obſerve, that thoſe who read at all, take their books into the garden, and prefer the moſt crowded walks. Theſe ſtudious perſons, who ſeem to ſurpaſs Crambe himſelf in the faculty of abſtraction, ſmile and bow at every comma, without any appearance of derangement from ſuch frequent interruptions.
Time paſſes ſorrowly, rather than ſlowly; and my thoughts, without being amuſed, are employed. The novelty of our ſituation, the paſt, the future, all offer ſo many ſubjects of reflection, that my mind has more occaſion for repoſe than amuſement. My only external reſource iſ converſing with our fellow-priſoners, and learning the cauſes of their detention. Theſe relations furniſh me with a ſort of "abſtract of the times," and mark the character of the government better than circumſtances of more apparent conſequence; for what are battles, ſieges, and political machinations, but as they ultimately affect the happineſſ of ſociety? And when I learn that the lives, the liberty, and property of no claſs are ſecure from violation, it is not neceſſary one ſhould be at Paris to form an opinion of this period of the revolution, and of thoſe who conduct it.
The perſecution which has hitherto been chiefly directed againſt the Nobleſſe, has now a little ſubſided, and ſeems turned againſt religion and commerce. People are daily arreſted for aſſiſting at private maſſes, concealing images, or even for being poſſeſſors of religious books. Merchants are ſent here as monopolizers, and retailers, under variouſ pretexts, in order to give the committees an opportunity of pillaging their ſhops. It is not uncommon to ſee people of the town who are our guards one day, become our fellow-priſoners the next; and a few weekſ ſince, the ſon of an old gentleman who has been ſome time here, after being on guard the whole day, inſtead of being relieved at the uſual hour, was joined by his wife and children, under the eſcort of a couple of dragoons, who delivered the whole family into the cuſtody of our keeper; and this appears to have happened without any other motive than his having preſented a petition to Dumont in behalf of his father.
An old man was lately taken from his houſe in the night, and brought here, becauſe he was ſaid to have worn the croſs of St. Louis.—The fact is, however, that he never did wear this obnoxious diſtinction; and though his daughter has proved this incontrovertibly to Dumont, ſhe cannot obtain his liberty: and the poor young woman, after making two or three fruitleſs journeys to Paris, is obliged to content herſelf with ſeeing her father occaſionally at the gate.
The refectory of the convent is inhabited by hoſpital nuns. Many of the hoſpitals in France had a ſort of religious order annexed to them, whoſe buſineſs it was to attend the ſick; and habit, perhaps too the aſſociation of the offices of humanity with the duties of religion, had made them ſo uſeful in their profeſſion, that they were ſuffered to remain, even after the abolition of the regular monaſteries. But the devaſtating torrent of the revolution at length reached them: they were accuſed of beſtowing a more tender ſolicitude on their ariſtocratic patients than on the wounded volunteers and republicans; and, upon theſe curious charges, they have been heaped into carts, without a ſingle neceſſary, almoſt without covering, ſent from one department to another, and diſtributed in different priſons, where they are periſhing with cold, ſickneſs, and want! Some people are here only becauſe they happened to be accidentally at a houſe when the owner was arreſted;* and we have one family who were taken at dinner, with their gueſts, and the plate they were uſing!
* It was not uncommon for a mandate of arreſt to direct the taking "Citizen Such-a-one, and all perſons found in his houſe."
A grand-daughter of the celebrated De Witt, who reſided thirty leagueſ from hence, was arreſted in the night, put in an open cart, without any regard to her age, her ſex, or her infirmities, though the rain fell in torrents; and, after ſleeping on ſtraw in different priſons on the road, was depoſited here. As a Fleming, the law places her in the ſame predicament with a very pretty young woman who has lived ſome months at Amiens; but Dumont, who is at once the maker, the interpreter, and executor of the laws, has exempted the latter from the general proſcription, and appears daily with her in public; whereas poor Madame De Witt is excluded from ſuch indulgence, being above ſeventy years old— and is accuſed, moreover, of having been moſt exemplarily charitable, and, what is ſtill worſe, very religious.—I have given theſe inſtanceſ not as any way remarkable, and only that you may form ſome idea of the pretexts which have ſerved to cover France with priſons, and to conduct ſo many of its inhabitants to the ſcaffold.
It is impoſſible to reflect on a country in ſuch a ſituation, without abhorring the authors of it, and dreading the propagation of their doctrines. I hope they neither have imitators nor admirers in England; yet the convention in their debates, the Jacobins, and all the French newſpapers, ſeem ſo ſanguine in their expectation, and ſo poſitive in their aſſertions of an Engliſh revolution, that I occaſionally, and in ſpite of myſelf, feel a vague but ſerious ſolicitude, which I ſhould not have ſuppoſed the apprehenſion of any political evil could inſpre. I know the good ſenſe and information of my countrymen offer a powerful reſource againſt the love of change and metaphyſical ſubtilties; but, it is certain, the French government have much depended on the ſpirit of party, and the zeal of their propagandiſtes. They talk of a Britiſh convention, of a conventional army, and, in ſhort, all France ſeem prepared to ſee their neighbours involved in the ſame diſaſtrous ſyſtem with themſelves. The people are not a little ſupported in this error by the extracts that are given them from your orators in the Houſe of Commons, which teem with nothing but complaints againſt the oppreſſion of their own country, and enthuſiaſtic admiration of French liberty. We read and wonder—collate the Bill of Rights with the Code Revolutionnaire, and again fear what we cannot give credit to.
Since the reports I allude to have gained ground, I have been forcibly ſtricken by a difference in the character of the two nations. At the proſpect of a revolution, all the French who could conveniently leave the country, fled; and thoſe that remained (except adventurers and the banditti that were their accomplices) ſtudiouſly avoided taking any part. But ſo little are our countrymen affected with this ſelfiſh apathy, that I am told there is ſcarcely one here who, amidſt all his preſent ſufferings, does not ſeem to regret his abſence from England, more on account of not being able to oppoſe this threatened attack on our conſtitution, than for any perſonal motive.—The example before them muſt, doubtleſs, tend to increaſe this ſentiment of genuine patriotiſm; for whoever came to France with but a ſingle grain of it in hiſ compoſition, muſt return with more than enough to conſtitute an hundred patriots, whoſe hatred of deſpotiſm is only a principle, and who have never felt its effects.—Adieu.