Paris may, without exaggeration, be deſcribed as in a ſtate of famine. The markets are ſcantily ſupplied, and bread, except the little diſtributed by order of the government, not to be obtained: yet the inhabitants, for the moſt part, are not turbulent—they have learned too late, that revolutions are not the ſource of plenty, and, though they murmur and execrate their rulers, they abſtain from violence, and ſeem rather inclined to yield to deſpair, than to ſeek revenge. This is one proof, among a variety of others, that the deſpotiſm under which the French have groaned for the laſt three years, has much ſubdued the vivacity and impatience of the national character; for I know of no period in their hiſtory, when ſuch a combination of perſonal ſuffering and political diſcontent, as exiſts at preſent, would not have produced ſome ſerious convulſion.
Amiens, June 18, 1795.
We returned hither yeſterday, and on Friday we are to proceed to Havre, accompanied by an order from the Committee of Public Welfare, ſtating that ſeveral Engliſh families, and ourſelves among the number, have been for ſome time a burthen on the generoſity of the republic, and that for this reaſon we are permitted to embark as ſoon as we can find the means. This is neither true, nor very gallant; but we are too happy in quitting the republic, to cavil about terms, and would not exchange our pauper-like paſſports for a conſignment of all the national domains.
I have been buſy to-day in collecting and diſpoſing of my papers, and though I have taken infinite pains to conceal them, their bulk is ſo conſiderable, that the conveyance muſt be attended with riſk. While I was thus employed, the caſual peruſal of ſome paſſages in my letters and notes has led me to conſider how much my ideas of the French character and manners differ from thoſe to be found in the generality of modern travels. My opinions are not of importance enough to require a defence; and a conſciouſneſs of not having deviated from truth makes me ſtill more averſe from an apology. Yet as I have in ſeveral inſtances varied from authorities highly reſpectable, it may not be improper to endeavour to account for what has almoſt the appearance of preſumption.
If you examine moſt of the publications deſcribing foreign countries, you will find them generally written by authors travelling either with the eclat of birth and riches, or, profeſſionally, as men of ſcience or letters. They ſcarcely remain in any place longer than ſuffices to view the churches, and to deliver their letters of recommendation; or, if their ſtay be protracted at ſome capital town, it is only to be feted from one houſe to another, among that claſs of people who are every where alike. As ſoon as they appear in ſociety, their reputation as authorſ ſets all the national and perſonal vanity in it afloat. One is polite, for the honour of his country—another is brilliant, to recommend himſelf; and the traveller cannot aſk a queſtion, the anſwer to which iſ not intended for an honourable inſertion in his repertory of future fame.
In this manner an author is paſſed from the literati and faſhionable people of one metropolis to thoſe of the next. He goes poſt through ſmall towns and villages, ſeldom mixes with every-day life, and muſt in a great degree depend for information on partial enquiries. He ſees, as it were, only the two extremes of human condition—the ſplendour of the rich, and the miſery of the poor; but the manners of the intermediate claſſes, which are leſs obtruſive, are not within the notice of a temporary reſident.
It is not therefore extraordinary, that I, who have been domeſticated ſome years in France, who have lived among its inhabitants without pretenſions, and ſeen them without diſguiſe, ſhould not think them quite ſo polite, elegant, gay, or ſuſceptible, as they endeavour to appear to the viſitant of the day. Where objects of curioſity only are to be deſcribed, I know that a vaſt number may be viewed in a very rapid progreſs; yet national character, I repeat, cannot be properly eſtimated but by means of long and familiar intercourſe. A perſon who is every where a ſtranger, muſt ſee things in their beſt dreſs; being the object of attention, he is naturally diſpoſed to be pleaſed, and many circumſtances both phyſical and moral are paſſed over as novelties in this tranſient communication, which might, on repetition, be found inconvenient or diſguſting. When we are ſtationary, and ſurrounded by our connections, we are apt to be difficult and ſplenetic; but a literary traveller never thinks of inconvenience, and ſtill leſs of being out of humour—curioſity reconciles him to the one, and his fame ſo ſmooths all his intercourſe, that he has no plea for the other.
It is probably for theſe reaſons that we have ſo many panegyriſts of our Gallic neighbours, and there is withal a certain faſhion of liberality that has lately prevailed, by which we think ourſelves bound to do them more than juſtice, becauſe they [are] our political enemies. For my own part, I confeſs I have merely endeavoured to be impartial, and have not ſcrupled to give a preference to my own country where I believed it waſ due. I make no pretenſions to that ſort of coſmopolitaniſm which iſ without partialities, and affects to conſider the Chicktaw or the Tartarſ of Thibet, with the ſame regard as a fellow-countryman. Such univerſal philanthropiſts, I have often ſuſpected, are people of very cold hearts, who fancy they love the whole world, becauſe they are incapable of loving any thing in it, and live in a ſtate of "moral vagabondage," (as it iſ happily termed by Gregoire,) in order to be exempted from the ties of a ſettled reſidence. "Le coſmopolytiſme de ſyſteme et de fait n'eſt qu'un vagabondage phyſique ou moral: nous devons un amour de preference a la ſociete politique dont nous ſommes membres." ["Coſmopolytiſm, either in theory or in practice, is no better than a moral or phyſical vagrancy: the political ſociety of which we are members, is entitled to a preference in our affections.">[
Let it not be imagined, that, in drawing compariſons between France and England, I have been influenced by perſonal ſuffering or perſonal reſentment. My opinions on the French characters and manners were formed before the revolution, when, though my judgment might be deficient, my heart was warm, and my mind unprejudiced; yet whatever credit may be allowed to my general opinions, thoſe which particularly apply to the preſent ſituation and temper of the French will probably be diſputed. When I deſcribe the immenſe majority of the nation as royaliſts, hating their government, and at once indignant and ſubmiſſive, thoſe who have not ſtudied the French character, and the progreſs of the revolution, may ſuſpect my veracity. I can only appeal to facts. It is not a new event in hiſtory for the many to be ſubdued by the few, and this ſeems to be the only inſtance in which ſuch a poſſibility has been doubted.*