* The Commandant of Liſle, on his arrival at the Bicetre, waſ ſtripped of a conſiderable ſum of money, and a quantity of plate he had unluckily brought with him by way of ſecurity. Out of this he is to be ſupplied with fifty livres at a time in paper, which, according to the exchange and the price of every thing, is, I ſuppoſe, about half a guinea. ** The armee revolutionnaire was firſt raiſed by order of the Jacobins, for the purpoſe of ſearching the countries for proviſions, and conducting them to Paris. Under this pretext, a levy was made of all the moſt deſperate ruffians that could be collected together. They were divided into companies, each with its attendant Guillotine, and then diſtributed in the different departments: they had extraordinary pay, and ſeem to have been ſubject to no diſcipline. Many of them were diſtinguiſhed by the repreſentation of a Guillotine in miniature, and a head juſt ſevered, on their cartouch-boxes. It would be impoſſible to deſcribe half the enormities committed by theſe banditti: wherever they went they were regarded as a ſcourge, and every heart ſhrunk at their approach. Lecointre, of Verſailles, a member of the Convention, complained that a band of theſe wretches entered the houſe of a farmer, one of his tenants, by night, and, after binding the family hand and foot, and helping themſelves to whatever they could find, they placed the farmer with his bare feet on the chaffing-diſh of hot aſhes, by way of forcing him to diſcover where he had ſecreted his plate and money, which having ſecured, they ſet all the veſſels of liquor running, and then retired.
You are not to ſuppoſe this a robbery, and the actors common thieves; all was in the uſual form—"au nom de la loi," and for the ſervice of the republic; and I do not mention this inſtance as remarkable, otherwiſe than as having been noticed in the Convention. A thouſand events of thiſ kind, even ſtill more atrocious, have happened; but the ſufferers who had not the means of defence as well as of complaint, were obliged, through policy, to be ſilent.
—The garriſon and national guard, indignant at the horrors they committed, obliged them to decamp. Even the people of Dunkirk, whoſe reſiſtance to the Engliſh, while the French army was collecting together for their relief, was perhaps of more conſequence than ten victories, have been ſince intimidated with Commiſſioners, and Tribunals, and Guillotines, as much as if they had been convicted of ſelling the town. In ſhort, under this philanthropic republic, perſecution ſeems to be very exactly proportioned to the ſervices rendered. A jealous and ſuſpiciouſ government does not forget, that the ſame energy of character which haſ enabled a people to defend themſelves againſt an external enemy, may alſo make them leſs ſubmiſſive to domeſtic oppreſſion; and, far from repaying them with the gratitude to which they have a claim, it treats them, on all occaſions, as opponents, whom it both fears and hates.
Nov. 22. We have been walking in the yard to-day with General Laveneur, who, for an act which in any other country would have gained him credit, is in this ſuſpended from his command.—When Cuſtine, a few weeks before his death, left the army to viſit ſome of the neighbouring towns, the command devolved on Laveneur, who received, along with other official papers, a liſt of counterſigns, which, having probably been made ſome time, and not altered conformably to the changes of the day, contained, among others, the words Condorcet—Conſtitution; and theſe were in their turn given out. On Cuſtine's trial, this was made a part of hiſ accuſation. Laveneur, recollecting that the circumſtance had happened in the abſence of Cuſtine, thought it incumbent on him to take the blame, if there were any, on himſelf, and wrote to Paris to explain the matter aſ it really ſtood; but his candour, without availing Cuſtine, drew perſecution on himſelf, and the only notice taken of his letter was an order to arreſt him. After being dragged from one town to another, like a criminal, and often lodged in dungeons and common priſons, he was at length depoſited here.
I know not if the General's principles are republican, but he has a very democratic pair of whiſkers, which he occaſionally ſtrokes, and ſeems to cheriſh with much affection. He is, however, a gentleman-like man, and expreſſes ſuch anxiety for the fate of his wife and children, who are now at Paris, that one cannot but be intereſted in his favour.—As the agentſ of the republic never err on the ſide of omiſſion, they arreſted Mons. Laveneur's aid-de-camp with him; and another officer of his acquaintance, who was ſuſpended, and living at Amiens, has ſhared the ſame fate, only for endeavouring to procure him a trifling accommodation. This gentleman called on Dumont, to beg that General Laveneur's ſervant might be permitted to go in and out of the priſon on his maſter's errands. After breakfaſting together, and converſing on very civil terms, Dumont told him, that as he concerned himſelf ſo much in behalf of his friend, he would ſend him to keep the latter company, and at the concluſion of hiſ viſit he was ſent priſoner to the Bicetre.
Perhaps the greater part of between three and four hundred thouſand people, now impriſoned on ſuſpicion, have been arreſted for reaſons aſ little ſubſtantial.
—I begin to fear my health will not reſiſt the hardſhip of a long continuance here. We have no fire-place, and are ſometimes ſtarved with partial winds from the doors and roof; at others faint and heartſick with the unhealthy air produced by ſo many living bodies. The water we drink is not preferable to the air we breathe; the bread (which is now every where ſcarce and bad) contains ſuch a mixture of barley, rye, damaged wheat, and traſh of all kinds, that, far from being nouriſhed by it, I loſe both my ſtrength and appetite daily.—Yet theſe are not the worſt of our ſufferings. Shut out from all ſociety, victims of a deſpotic and unprincipled government capable of every thing, and ignorant of the fate which may await us, we are occaſionally oppreſſed by a thouſand melancholy apprehenſions. I might, indeed, have boaſted of my fortitude, and have made myſelf an heroine on paper at as ſmall an expence of words as it has coſt me to record my cowardice: but I am of an unlucky conformation, and think either too much or too little (I know not which) for a female philoſopher; beſides, philoſophy is getting into ſuch ill repute, that not poſſeſſing the reality, the name of it is not worth aſſuming.
A poor old prieſt told me juſt now, (while Angelique was mending hiſ black coat with white thread,) that they had left at the place where they were laſt confined a large quantity of linen, and other neceſſaries; but, by the expreſs orders of Dumont, they were not allowed to bring a ſingle article away with them. The keeper, too, it ſeems, was threatened with diſmiſſion, for ſupplying one of them with a ſhirt.—In England, where, I believe, you ally political expediency as much as you can with juſtice and humanity, theſe cruelties, at once little and refined, will appear incredible; and the French themſelves, who are at leaſt aſhamed of, if they are not pained by, them, are obliged to ſeek refuge in the fancied palliative of a "ſtate of revolution."—Yet, admitting the neceſſity of confining the perſons of theſe old men, there can be none for heaping them together in filth and miſery, and adding to the ſufferings of yearſ and infirmity by thoſe of cold and want. If, indeed, a ſtate of revolution require ſuch deeds, and imply an apology for them, I cannot but wiſh the French had remained as they were, for I know of no political changes that can compenſate for turning a civilized nation into a people of ſavages. It is not ſurely the eating acorns or ragouts, a well-powdered head, or one decorated with red feathers, that conſtituteſ the difference between barbariſm and civilization; and, I fear, if the French proceed as they have begun, the advantage of morals will be conſiderably on the ſide of the unrefined ſavages.
The converſation of the priſon has been much engaged by the fate of an Engliſh gentleman, who lately deſtroyed himſelf in a Maiſon d'Arret at Amiens. His confinement had at firſt deeply affected his ſpirits, and his melancholy increaſing at the proſpect of a long detention, terminated in deranging his mind, and occaſioned this laſt act of deſpair.—I never hear of ſuicide without a compaſſion mingled with terror, for, perhaps, ſimple pity is too light an emotion to be excited by an event which reminds us, that we are ſuſceptible of a degree of miſery too great to be borne—too ſtrong for the efforts of inſtinct, reflection, and religion. —I could moralize on the neceſſity of habitual patience, and the benefit of preparing the mind for great evils by a philoſophic endurance of little ones; but I am at the Bicetre—the winds whiſtle round me—I am beſet by petty diſtreſſes, and we do not expatiate to advantage on endurance while we have any thing to endure.—Seneca's contempt for the things of this world was doubtleſs ſuggeſted in the palace of Nero. He would not have treated the ſubject ſo well in diſgrace and poverty. Do not ſuppoſe I am affecting to be pleaſant, for I write in the ſober ſadneſs of conviction, that human fortitude is often no better than a pompous theory, founded on ſelf-love and ſelf-deception.
I was ſurprized at meeting among our fellow-priſoners a number of Dutch officers. I find they had been ſome time in the town on their parole, and were ſent here by Dumont, for refuſing to permit their men to work on the fortifications.—The French government and its agents deſpiſe the laws of war hitherto obſerved; they conſider them as a ſort of ariſtocratie militaire, and they pretend, on the ſame principle, to be enfranchiſed from the law of nations.—An orator of the convention lately boaſted, that he felt himſelf infinitely ſuperior to the prejudices of Grotius, Puffendorff, and Vatel, which he calls "l'ariſtocratie diplomatique."—Such ſublime ſpirits think, becauſe they differ from the reſt of mankind, that they ſurpaſs them. Like Icarus, they attempt to fly, and are perpetually ſtruggling in the mire.—Plain common ſenſe haſ long pointed out a rule of action, from which all deviation is fatal, both to nations and individuals. England, as well as France, haſ furniſhed its examples; and the annals of genius in all countries are replete with the miſeries of eccentricity.—Whoever has followed the courſe of the French revolution, will, I believe, be convinced, that the greateſt evils attending on it have been occaſioned by an affected contempt for received maxims. A common banditti, acting only from the deſire of plunder, or men, erring only through ignorance, could not have ſubjugated an whole people, had they not been aſſiſted by narrow-minded philoſophers, who were eager to ſacrifice their country to the vanity of making experiments, and were little ſolicitous whether their ſyſtems were good or bad, provided they were celebrated as the authors of them. Yet, where are they now? Wandering, proſcribed, and trembling at the fate of their followers and accomplices.—The Briſſotins, ſacrificed by a party even worſe than themſelves, have died without exciting either pity or admiration. Their fall was conſidered as the natural conſequence of their exaltation, and the courage with which they met death obtained no tribute but a cold and ſimple comment, undiſtinguiſhed from the news of the day, and ending with it.