* The King appealed, by his counſel, to the People; but the convention, by a decree, declared his appeal of no validity, and forbade all perſons to pay attention to it, under the ſevereſt penalties.
The French ſeem to have no energy but to deſtroy, and to reſiſt nothing but gentleneſs or infancy. They bend under a firm or oppreſſive adminiſtration, but become reſtleſs and turbulent under a mild Prince or a minority.
The fate of this unfortunate Monarch has made me reflect, with great ſeriouſneſs, on the conduct of our oppoſition-writers in England. The literary banditti who now govern France began their operations by ridiculing the King's private character—from ridicule they proceeded to calumny, and from calumny to treaſon; and perhaps the firſt libel that degraded him in the eyes of his ſubjects opened the path from the palace to the ſcaffold.—I do not mean to attribute the ſame perniciouſ intentions to the authors on your ſide the Channel, as I believe them, for the moſt part, to be only mercenary, and that they would write panegyrics as ſoon as ſatires, were they equally profitable. I know too, that there is no danger of their producing revolutions in England—we do not ſuffer our principles to be corrupted by a man becauſe he has the art of rhyming nothings into conſequence, nor ſuffer another to overturn the government becauſe he is an orator. Yet, though theſe men may not be very miſchievous, they are very reprehenſible; and, in a moment like the preſent, contempt and neglect ſhould ſupply the place of that puniſhment againſt which our liberty of the preſs ſecures them.
It is not for a perſon no better informed than myſelf to pronounce on ſyſtems of government—ſtill leſs do I affect to have more enlarged notions than the generality of mankind; but I may, without riſking thoſe imputations, venture to ſay, I have no childiſh or irrational deference for the perſons of Kings. I know they are not, by nature, better than other men, and a neglected or vicious education may often render them worſe. This does not, however, make me leſs reſpect the office. I reſpect it as the means choſen by the people to preſerve internal peace and order—to baniſh corruption and petty tyrants ["And fly from petty tyrants to the throne."—Goldſmith]—and give vigour to the execution of the laws.
Regarded in this point of view, I cannot but lament the mode which haſ lately prevailed of endeavouring to alienate the conſideration due to our King's public character, by perſonal ridicule. If an individual were attacked in this manner, his houſe beſet with ſpies, his converſation with his family liſtened to, and the moſt trifling actions of his life recorded, it would be deemed unfair and illiberal, and he who ſhould practice ſuch meanneſs would be thought worthy of no puniſhment more reſpectful than what might be inflicted by an oaken cenſor, or an admonitory heel.—But it will be ſaid, a King is not an individual, and that ſuch a habit, or ſuch an amuſement, is beneath the dignity of hiſ character. Yet would it be but conſiſtent in thoſe who labour to prove, by the public acts of Kings, that they are leſs than men, not to exact, that, in their private lives, they ſhould be more.—The great prototype of modern ſatyriſts, Junius, does not allow that any credit ſhould be given a Monarch for his domeſtic virtues; is he then to be reduced to an individual, only to ſcrutinize his foibles, and is his ſtation to ſerve only as the medium of their publicity? Are theſe literary miners to penetrate the receſſes of private life, only to bring to light the droſs? Do they analyſe only to diſcover poiſons? Such employments may be congenial to their natures, but have little claim to public remuneration. The merit of a detractor is not much ſuperior to that of a flatterer; nor is a Prince more likely to be amended by imputed follies, than by undeſerved panegyrics. If any man wiſhed to repreſent his King advantageouſly, it could not be done better than by remarking, that, after all the watchings of aſſiduous neceſſity, and the laboriouſ reſearches of intereſted curioſity, it appears, that his private life affords no other ſubjects of ridicule than, that he is temperate, domeſtic, and oeconomical, and, as is natural to an active mind, wiſheſ to be informed of whatever happens not to be familiar to him. It were to be deſired that ſome of theſe accuſations were applicable to thoſe who are ſo much ſcandalized at them: but they are not littleneſſeſ—the littleneſs is in him who condeſcends to report them; and I have often wondered that men of genius ſhould make a traffic of gleaning from the refuſe of anti-chambers, and retailing the anecdotes of pages and footmen!
You will perceive the kind of publications I allude to; and I hope the ſituation of France, and the fate of its Monarch, may ſuggeſt to the authors a more worthy employ of their talents, than that of degrading the executive power in the eyes of the people.
Amiens, Feb. 25, 1793.
I told you, I believe, in a former letter, that the people of Amiens were all ariſtocrates: they have, nevertheleſs, two extremely popular qualificationſ—I mean filth and incivility. I am, however, far from imputing either of them to the revolution. This groſſneſs of behavior has long exiſted under the palliating deſcription of "la franchiſe Picarde," ["Picardy frankneſs.">[ and the floors and ſtairs of many houſes will atteſt their preeminence in filth to be of a date much anterior to the revolution.—If you purchaſe to the amount of an hundred livres, there are many ſhopkeepers who will not ſend your purchaſes home; and if the articles they ſhow you do not anſwer your purpoſe, they are moſtly ſullen, and often rude. No appearance of fatigue or infirmity ſuggeſts to them the idea of offering you a ſeat; they contradict you with impertinence, addreſs you with freedom, and conclude with cheating you if they can. It was certainly on this account that Sterne would not agree to die at the inn at Amiens. He might, with equal juſtice, have objected to any other houſe; and I am ſure if he thought them an unpleaſant people to die amongſt, he would have found them ſtill worſe to live with.—My obſervation as to the civility of ariſtocrates does not hold good here—indeed I only meant that thoſe who ever had any, and were ariſtocrates, ſtill preſerved it.
Amiens has always been a commercial town, inhabited by very few of the higher nobleſſe; and the mere gentry of a French province are not very much calculated to give a tone of ſoftneſs and reſpect to thoſe who imitate them. You may, perhaps, be ſurprized that I ſhould expreſſ myſelf with little conſideration for a claſs which, in England, is ſo highly reſpectable: there gentlemen of merely independent circumſtanceſ are not often diſtinguiſhable in their manners from thoſe of ſuperior fortune or rank. But, in France, it is different: the inferior nobleſſe are ſtiff, ceremonious, and oſtentatious; while the higher ranks were always polite to ſtrangers, and affable to their dependents. When you viſit ſome of the former, you go through as many ceremonies as though you were to be inveſted with an order, and riſe up and ſit down ſo many times, that you return more fatigued than you would from a cricket match; while with the latter you are juſt as much at your eaſe as is conſiſtent with good breeding and propriety, and a whole circle is never put in commotion at the entrance and exit of every individual who makes part of it. Any one not prepared for theſe formalities, and who, for the firſt time, ſaw an aſſembly of twenty people all riſing from their ſeats at the entrance of a ſingle beau, would ſuppoſe they were preparing for a dance, and that the new comer was a muſician. For my part I always find it an oeconomy of ſtrength (when the locality makes it practicable) to take poſſeſſion of a window, and continue ſtanding in readineſs until the hour of viſiting is over, and calm is eſtabliſhed by the arrangement of the card tables.—The revolution has not annihilated the difference of rank; though it has effected the abolition of titles; and I counſel all who have remains of the gout or inflexible joints, not to frequent the houſeſ of ladies whoſe huſbands have been ennobled only by their offices, of thoſe whoſe genealogies are modern, or of the collaterals of ancient families, whoſe claims are ſo far removed as to be doubtful. The ſociety of all theſe is very exigent, and to be avoided by the infirm or indolent.