My friend La Marquiſe de ____ has left Paris, and is now at Peronne, where ſhe has engaged me to paſs a few weeks with her; ſo that my next will moſt probably be dated from thence.—Mr. D____ is endeavouring to get a paſſport for England. He begins to regret having remained here. His temper, naturally impatient of reſtraint, accords but ill with the portion of liberty enjoyed by our republicans. Corporal privations and mental interdictions multiply ſo faſt, that irritable people like himſelf, and valetudinarians like Mrs. C____ and me, could not chooſe a worſe reſidence; and, as we are now unanimous on the ſubject, I hope ſoon to leave the country.—There is, as you obſerve in your laſt, ſomething of indolence as well as friendſhip in my having ſo long remained here; but if actions were always analyzed ſo ſtrictly, and we were not allowed to derive a little credit from our weakneſſes, how many great characterſ would be reduced to the common level. Voltaire introduced a ſort of rage for anecdotes, and for tracing all events to trifling cauſes, which haſ done much more towards exploding the old-faſhioned ſyſtem or the dignity of human nature than the dry maxims of Rochefaucault, the ſophiſms of Mandeville, or even the malicious wit of Swift. This is alſo another effect of the progreſs of philoſophy; and this ſort of moral Quixotiſm, continually in ſearch of evil, and more gratified in diſcovering it than pained by its exiſtence, may be very philoſophical; but it is at leaſt gloomy and diſcouraging; and we may be permitted to doubt whether mankind become wiſer or better by learning, that thoſe who have been moſt remarkable either for wiſdom or virtue were occaſionally under the influence of the ſame follies and paſſions as other people.—Your uncharitable diſcernment, you ſee, has led me into a digreſſion, and I have, without intending it, connected the motives of my ſtay with reflections on Voltaire's General Hiſtory, Barillon's Letters, and all the ſecret biography of our modern libraries. This, you will ſay, iſ only a chapter of a "man's importance to himſelf;" but public affairs are now ſo confuſed and diſguſting, that we are glad to encourage any train of ideas not aſſociated with them.
The Commiſſioners I gave you ſome account of in a former letter are departed, and we have lately had Chabot, an Ex-capuchin, and a patriot of ſpecial note in the Convention, and one Dumont, an attorney of a neighbouring village. They are, like all the reſt of theſe miſſionaries, entruſted with unlimited powers, and inſpire apprehenſion and diſmay wherever they approach.
The Garde Nationale of Amiens are not yet entirely ſubdued to the times, and Chabot gave ſome hints of a project to diſarm them, and actually attempted to arreſt ſome of their officers; but, apprized of his deſign, they remained two nights under arms, and the Capuchin, who is not martially inclined, was ſo alarmed at this indication of reſiſtance, that he has left the town with more haſte than ceremony.—He had, in an harangue at the cathedral, inculcated ſome very edifying doctrines on the diviſion of property and the right of pillage; and it is not improbable, had he not withdrawn, but the Amienois would have ventured, on thiſ pretext, to arreſt him. Some of them contrived, in ſpite of the centinel placed at the lodging of theſe great men, to paſte up on the door two figures, with the names of Chabot and Dumont; in the "fatal poſition of the unfortunate brave;" and though certain events in the lives of theſe Deputies may have rendered this perſpective of their laſt moments not abſolutely a novelty, yet I do not recollect that Akenſide, or any other author, has enumerated a gibbet amongſt the objects, which, though not agreeable in themſelves, may be reconciled to the mind by familiarity. I wiſh, therefore, our repreſentatives may not, in return for thiſ admonitory portrait of their latter end, draw down ſome vengeance on the town, not eaſily to be appeaſed. I am no aſtrologer, but in our ſublunary world the conjunction of an attorney and a renegade monk cannot preſent a fortunate aſpect; and I am truly anxious to find myſelf once again under the more benign influence of your Engliſh hemiſphere.—Yours.
Peronne, July 29, 1793.
Every attempt to obtain paſſports has been fruitleſs, and, with that ſort of diſcontented reſignation which is the effect of neceſſity, I now look upon myſelf as fixed here till the peace. I left Mr. and Mrs. D____ yeſterday morning, the diſappointment operating upon them in full force. The former takes longer walks than uſual, breaks out in philippicſ againſt tyrannies of all kinds, and ſwears ten times a day that the French are the moſt noiſy people upon earth—the latter is vexed, and, for that reaſon, fancies ſhe is ill, and calculates, with great ingenuity, all the hazard and inconvenience we may be liable to by remaining here. I hope, on my return, to find them more reconciled.
At Villars de Bretonne, on my road hither, ſome people told me, with great gaiety, that the Engliſh had made a deſcent on the coaſt of Picardy. Such a report (for I did not ſuppoſe it poſſible) during the laſt war would have made me tremble, but I heard this without alarm, having, in no inſtance, ſeen the people take that kind of intereſt in public events which formerly made a reſidence in France unpleaſant to an individual of an hoſtile nation. It is not that they are become more liberal, or better informed—no change of this kind has been diſcovered even by the warmeſt advocates of the revolution; but they are more indifferent, and thoſe who are not decidedly the enemies of the preſent government, for the moſt part concern themſelves as little about the events of the war, as though it were carried on in the South Sea.
I fear I ſhould riſk an imputation on my veracity, were I to deſcribe the extreme ignorance and inattention of the French with reſpect to public men and meaſures. They draw no concluſions from the paſt, form no conjectures for the future, and, after exclaiming "Il ne peut pas durer comme cela," they, with a reſignation which is certainly neither piouſ nor philoſophic, leave the reſt to the agency of Providence.—Even thoſe who are more informed ſo bewilder themſelves in the politics of Greece and Rome, that they do not perceive how little theſe are applicable to their own country. Indeed, it ſhould ſeem that no modern age or people is worthy the knowledge of a Frenchman.—I have often remarked, in the courſe of our correſpondence, how little they are acquainted with what regards England or the Engliſh; and ſcarcely a day paſſes that I have not occaſion to make the ſame obſervation.
My conductor hither, who is a friend of Mad. de T____, and eſteemed "bien inſtruit," was much ſurprized when I told him that the population and ſize of London exceeded that of Pariſ—that we had good fruit, and better vegetables than were to be found in many parts of France. I ſaw that he ſuſpected my veracity, and there is always on theſe occaſions ſuch a decided and impenetrable incredulity in a Frenchman as precludes all hopes of convincing him. He liſtens with a ſort of ſelf-ſufficient complacence which tells you he does not conſider your aſſertions as any thing more than the exaggerations of national vanity, but that hiſ politeneſs does not allow him to contradict you. I know nothing more diſguſtingly impertinent than his ignorance, which intrenches itſelf behind the forms of civility, and, affecting to decline controverſy, aſſumes the merit of forbearance and moderation: yet this muſt have been often obſerved by every one who has lived much in French ſociety: for the firſt emotion of a Frenchman, on hearing any thing which tends to place another country on an equality with France, is doubt—this doubt iſ inſtantly reinforced by vanity—and, in a few ſeconds, he is perfectly ſatiſfied that the thing is impoſſible.
One muſt be captious indeed to object to this, did it ariſe from that patriotic feeling ſo common in the Engliſh; but here it is all vanity, downright vanity: a Frenchman muſt have his country and his miſtreſſ admired, though he does not often care much for either one or the other. I have been in various parts of France in the moſt critical periods of the revolution—I have converſed with people of all parties and of all rankſ—and I aſſert, that I have never yet met but with one man who had a grain of real patriotiſm. If the Athenian law were adopted which doomed all to death who ſhould be indifferent to the public welfare in a time of danger, I fear there would be a woeful depopulation here, even among the loudeſt champions of democracy.