* Many of theſe poetical trifles have been publiſhed—ſome written even the night before their authors were executed. There are ſeveral of great poetical merit, and, when conſidered relatively, are wonderful.—Among the various poets impriſoned, was one we ſhould ſcarcely have expected—Rouget Delille, author of the Marſeillois Hymn, who, while his muſe was rouzing the citizens from one end of the republic to the other to arm againſt tyrants, waſ himſelf languiſhing obſcurely a victim to the worſt of all tyrannies.
Mr. D____, though he writes and ſpeaks French admirably, does not love French verſes; and I found he could not depend on the government of hiſ features, while a French poet was reciting his own, but kept his eyeſ fixed on a dried apple, which he pared very curiouſly, and when that waſ atchieved, betook himſelf to breaking pralines, and extracting the almonds with equal application. We, however, complimented Monſieur'ſ poetry; and when we had taken our coffee, and the ſervants were entirely withdrawn, he read us ſome trifles more agreeable to our principles, if not to our taſte, and in which the Convention was treated with more ſincerity than complaiſance. It ſeems the poet's zeal for the republic had vaniſhed at his departure from the Luxembourg, and that his wrath againſt coaleſced deſpots, and his paſſion for liberty, had entirely evaporated. In the evening we played a party of reverſi with republican cards,* and heard the children ſing "Mourrons pour la Patrie."
* The four Kings are replaced by four Genii, the Queens by four ſorts of liberty, and the Knaves by four deſcriptions of equality.
—After theſe civic amuſements, we cloſed our chairs round the fire, conjecturing how long the republic might laſt, or whether we ſhould all paſs another twelve months in priſon, and, agreeing that both our fate and that of the republic were very precarious, adjourned to reſt.
While I was undreſſing, I obſerved Angelique looked extremely diſcontented, and on my enquiring what was the matter, ſhe anſwered, "C'eſt que je m'ennuie beaucoup ici," ["I am quite tired of thiſ place.">[ "Mademoiſelle," (for no ſtate or calling is here exempt from thiſ polite ſenſation.) "And why, pray?"—"Ah quelle triſte ſociete, tout le monde eſt d'un patriotiſme inſoutenable, la maiſon eſt remplie d'imageſ republicaines, des Marat, des Voltaire, des Pelletier, que ſais-moi? et voila juſqu'au garcon de l'ecurie qui me traite de citoyenne." ["Oh, they are a ſad ſet—every body is ſo inſufferably patriotic. The houſe is full from top to bottom of republican images, Marats, and Voltaires, and Pelletiers, and I don't know who—and I am called Citizen even by the ſtable boy.">[ I did not think it right to ſatiſfy her as to the real principles of our friends, and went to bed ruminating on the improvementſ which the revolution muſt have occaſioned in the art of diſſimulation. Terror has drilled people of the moſt oppoſite ſentiments into ſuch an uniformity of manner and expreſſion, that an ariſtocrat who is ruined and perſecuted by the government is not diſtinguiſhable from the Jacobin who has made his fortune under it.
In the morning Angelique's countenance was brightened, and I found ſhe had ſlept in the ſame room with Madame's femme de chambre, when an explanation of their political creeds had taken place, ſo that ſhe now aſſured me Mad. Auguſtine was "fort honnete dans le fond," [A very good girl at heart.] though ſhe was obliged to affect republicaniſm.—"All the world's a ſtage," ſays our great dramatic moraliſt. France is certainly ſo at preſent, and we are not only neceſſitated to act a part, but a ſorry one too; for we have no choice but to exhibit in farce, or ſuffer in tragedy.—Yours, &c.
December 27, 1794.
I took the opportunity of my being here to go about four leagues farther to ſee an old convent acquaintance lately come to this part of the country, and whom I have not met ſince I was at Orleans in 1789.
The time has been when I ſhould have thought ſuch a hiſtory as thiſ lady's a romance, but tales of woe are now become familiar to us, and, if they create ſympathy, they no longer excite ſurprize, and we hear of them as the natural effects of the revolution.