FRENCH NATION.
LETTER
Introductory to a Series of Letters on the Preſent Character of the French Nation.
Paris, February 15, 1793.
My dear friend,
It is neceſſary perhaps for an obſerver of mankind, to guard as carefully the remembrance of the firſt impreſſion made by a nation, as by a countenance; becauſe we imperceptibly loſe ſight of the national character, when we become more intimate with individuals. It is not then uſeleſs or preſumptuous to note, that, when I firſt entered Paris, the ſtriking contraſt of riches and poverty, elegance and ſlovenlineſs, urbanity and deceit, every where caught my eye, and ſaddened my ſoul; and theſe impreſſions are ſtill the foundation of my remarks on the manners, which flatter the ſenſes, more than they intereſt the heart, and yet excite more intereſt than eſteem.
The whole mode of life here tends indeed to render the people frivolous, and, to borrow their favourite epithet, amiable. Ever on the wing, they are always ſipping the ſparkling joy on the brim of the cup, leaving ſatiety in the bottom for thoſe who venture to drink deep. On all ſides they trip along, buoyed up by animal ſpirits, and ſeemingly ſo void of care, that often, when I am walking on the Boulevards, it occurs to me, that they alone underſtand the full import of the term leiſure; and they trifle their time away with ſuch an air of contentment, I know not how to wiſh them wiſer at the expence of their gaiety. They play before me like motes in a ſunbeam, enjoying the paſſing ray; whilſt an Engliſh head, ſearching for more ſolid happineſs, loſes, in the analyſis of pleaſure, the volatile ſweets of the moment. Their chief enjoyment, it is true, riſes from vanity: but it is not the vanity that engenders vexation of ſpirit; on the contrary, it lightens the heavy burthen of life, which reaſon too often weighs, merely to ſhift from one ſhoulder to the other.
Inveſtigating the modification of the paſſion, as I would analyze the elements that give a form to dead matter, I ſhall attempt to trace to their ſource the cauſes which have combined to render this nation the moſt poliſhed, in a phyſical ſenſe, and probably the moſt ſuperficial in the world; and I mean to follow the windings of the various ſtreams that diſembogue into a terrific gulf, in which all the dignity of our nature is abſorbed. For every thing has conſpired to make the French the moſt ſenſual people in the world; and what can render the heart ſo hard, or ſo effectually ſtifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of ſenſuality?
The frequent repetition of the word French, appears invidious; let me then make a previous obſervation, which I beg you not to loſe ſight of, when I ſpeak rather harſhly of a land flowing with milk and honey. Remember that it is not the morals of a particular people that I would decry; for are we not all of the ſame ſtock? But I wiſh calmly to conſider the ſtage of civilization in which I find the French, and, giving a ſketch of their character, and unfolding the circumſtances which have produced its identity, I ſhall endeavour to throw ſome light on the hiſtory of man, and on the preſent important ſubjects of diſcuſſion.
I would I could firſt inform you that, out of the chaos of vices and follies, prejudices and virtues, rudely jumbled together, I ſaw the fair form of Liberty ſlowly riſing, and Virtue expanding her wings to ſhelter all her children! I ſhould then hear the account of the barbarities that have rent the boſom of France patiently, and bleſs the firm hand that lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the ariſtocracy of birth is levelled with the ground, only to make room for that of riches, I am afraid that the morals of the people will not be much improved by the change, or the government rendered leſs venal. Still it is not juſt to dwell on the miſery produced by the preſent ſtruggle, without adverting to the ſtanding evils of the old ſyſtem. I am grieved—ſorely grieved—when I think of the blood that has ſtained the cauſe of freedom at Paris; but I alſo hear the ſame live ſtream cry aloud from the highways, through which the retreating armies paſſed with famine and death in their rear, and I hide my face with awe before the inſcrutable ways of providence, ſweeping in ſuch various directions the beſom of deſtruction over the ſons of men.
Before I came to France, I cheriſhed, you know, an opinion, that ſtrong virtues might exiſt with the poliſhed manners produced by the progreſs of civilization; and I even anticipated the epoch, when, in the courſe of improvement, men would labour to become virtuous, without being goaded on by miſery. But now, the perſpective of the golden age, fading before the attentive eye of obſervation, almoſt eludes my ſight; and, loſing thus in part my theory of a more perfect ſtate, ſtart not, my friend, if I bring forward an opinion, which at the firſt glance ſeems to be levelled againſt the exiſtence of God! I am not become an Atheiſt, I aſſure you, by reſiding at Paris: yet I begin to fear that vice, or, if you will, evil, is the grand mobile of action, and that, when the paſſions are juſtly poized, we become harmleſs, and in the ſame proportion uſeleſs.
The wants of reaſon are very few; and, were we to conſider diſpaſſionately the real value of moſt things, we ſhould probably reſt ſatiſfied with the ſimple gratification of our phyſical neceſſities, and be content with negative goodneſs: for it is frequently, only that wanton, the Imagination, with her artful coquetry, who lures us forward, and makes us run over a rough road, puſhing aſide every obſtacle merely to catch a diſappointment.
The deſire alſo of being uſeful to others, is continually damped by experience; and, if the exertions of humanity were not in ſome meaſure their own reward, who would endure miſery, or ſtruggle with care, to make ſome people ungrateful, and others idle?
You will call theſe melancholy effuſions, and gueſs that, fatigued by the vivacity, which has all the buſtling folly of childhood, without the innocence which renders ignorance charming, I am too ſevere in my ſtrictures. It may be ſo; and I am aware that the good effects of the revolution will be laſt felt at Paris; where ſurely the ſoul of Epicurus has long been at work to root out the ſimple emotions of the heart, which, being natural, are always moral. Rendered cold and artificial by the ſelfiſh enjoyments of the ſenſes, which the government foſtered, is it ſurpriſing that ſimplicity of manners, and ſingleneſs of heart, rarely appear, to recreate me with the wild odour of nature, ſo paſſing ſweet?
Seeing how deep the fibres of miſchief have ſhot, I ſometimes aſk, with a doubting accent, Whether a nation can go back to the purity of manners which has hitherto been maintained unſullied only by the keen air of poverty, when, emaſculated by pleaſure, the luxuries of proſperity are become the wants of nature? I cannot yet give up the hope, that a fairer day is dawning on Europe, though I muſt heſitatingly obſerve, that little is to be expected from the narrow principle of commerce which ſeems every where to be ſhoving aſide the point of honour of the nobleſſe. I can look beyond the evils of the moment, and do not expect muddied water to become clear before it has had time to ſtand; yet, even for the moment, it is the moſt terrific of all ſights, to ſee men vicious without warmth—to ſee the order that ſhould be the ſuperſcription of virtue, cultivated to give ſecurity to crimes which only thoughtleſſneſs could palliate. Diſorder is, in fact, the very eſſence of vice, though with the wild wiſhes of a corrupt fancy humane emotions often kindly mix to ſoften their atrocity. Thus humanity, generoſity, and even ſelf-denial, ſometimes render a character grand, and even uſeful, when hurried away by lawleſs paſſions; but what can equal the turpitude of a cold calculator who lives for himſelf alone, and conſidering his fellow-creatures merely as machines of pleaſure, never forgets that honeſty is the beſt policy? Keeping ever within the pale of the law, he cruſhes his thouſands with impunity; but it is with that degree of management, which makes him, to borrow a ſignificant vulgariſm, a villain in grain. The very exceſs of his depravation preſerves him, whilſt the more reſpectable beaſt of prey, who prowls about like the lion, and roars to announce his approach, falls into a ſnare.
You may think it too ſoon to form an opinion of the future government, yet it is impoſſible to avoid hazarding ſome conjectures, when every thing whiſpers me, that names, not principles, are changed, and when I ſee that the turn of the tide has left the dregs of the old ſyſtem to corrupt the new. For the ſame pride of office, the ſame deſire of power are ſtill viſible; with this aggravation, that, fearing to return to obſcurity after having but juſt acquired a reliſh for diſtinction, each hero, or philoſopher, for all are dubbed with theſe new titles, endeavours to make hay while the ſun ſhines; and every petty municipal officer, become the idol, or rather the tyrant of the day, ſtalks like a cock on a dunghil.
I ſhall now conclude this deſultory letter; which however will enable you to foreſee that I ſhall treat more of morals than manners.
Yours ———
