A few evenings ago, while we were at the Bicetre, we were ſuddenly informed by the keeper that Dumont had ſent ſome ſoldiers with an order to convey us that night to the Providence. We were at firſt rather ſurprized than pleaſed, and reluctantly gathered our baggage together with as much expedition as we could, while the men who were to eſcort uſ were exclaiming "a la Francaiſe" at the trifling delay this occaſioned. When we had paſſed the gate, we found Fleury, with ſome porters, ready to receive our beds, and overjoyed at having procured us a more decent priſon, for, it ſeems, he could by no means reconcile himſelf to the name of Bicetre. We had about half a mile to walk, and on the road he contrived to acquaint us with the means by which he had ſolicited thiſ favour of Dumont. After adviſing with all Mad. de ____'s friends who were yet at liberty, and finding no one willing to make an effort in her behalf, for fear of involving themſelves, he diſcovered an old acquaintance in the "femme de chambre" of one of Fleury's miſtreſſes.— This, for one of Fleury's ſagacity, was a ſpring to have ſet the whole Convention in a ferment; and in a few days he profited ſo well by thiſ female patronage, as to obtain an order for tranſferring us hither. On our arrival, we were informed, as uſual, that the houſe was already full, and that there was no poſſibility of admitting us. We however, ſet up all night in the keeper's room with ſome other people newly arrived like ourſelves, and in the morning, after a little diſputing and a pretty general derangement of the more ancient inhabitants, we were "nichees," as I have deſcribed to you.
We have not yet quitted our room much, but I obſerve that every one appears more chearful, and more ſtudied in their toilette, than at the Bicetre, and I am willing to infer from thence that confinement here iſ leſs inſupportable.—I have been employed two days in enlarging the noteſ I had made in our laſt priſon, and in making them more legible, for I ventured no farther than juſt to ſcribble with a pencil in a kind of ſhort-hand of my own invention, and not even that without a variety of precautions. I ſhall be here leſs liable either to ſurprize or obſervation, and as ſoon as I have ſecured what I have already noted, (which I intend to do to-night,) I ſhall continue my remarks in the uſual form. You will find even more than my cuſtomary incorrectneſs and want of method ſince we left Peronne; but I ſhall not allow your competency aſ a critic, until you have been a priſoner in the hands of French republicans.
It will not be improper to notice to you a very ingenious decree of Gaſton, (a member of the Convention,) who lately propoſed to embark all the Engliſh now in France at Breſt, and then to ſink the ſhips.—Perhapſ the Committee of Public Welfare are now in a ſort of benevolent indeciſion, whether this, or Collot d'Herboiſ' gunpowder ſcheme, ſhall have the preference. Legendre's iron cage and ſimple hanging will, doubtleſs, be rejected, as too ſlow and formal. The mode of the day iſ "les grandes meſures." If I be not ſeriouſly alarmed at theſe propoſitions, it is not that life is indifferent to me, or that I think the government too humane to adopt them. My tranquillity ariſes from reflecting that ſuch meaſures would be of no political uſe, and that we ſhall moſt likely be ſoon forgotten in the multitude of more important concerns. Thoſe, however, whom I endeavour to conſole by this reaſoning, tell me it is nothing leſs than infallible, that the inutility of a crime is here no ſecurity againſt its perpetration, and that any project which tends to evil will ſooner be remembered than one of humanity or juſtice.
[End of Vol. I. The Printed Books]
[Beginning of Volume II. Of The Printed Books]
Providence, Dec. 20, 1793.
"All places that are viſited by the eye of Heaven, are to the wiſe man happy havens." If Shakſpeare's philoſophy be orthodox, the French have, it muſt be confeſſed, many claims to the reputation of a wiſe people; and though you know I always diſputed their pretenſions to general gaiety, yet I acknowledge that miſfortune does not deprive them of the ſhare they poſſeſs, and, if one may judge by appearances, they have at leaſt the habit, more than any other nation, of finding content under ſituationſ with which it ſhould ſeem incompatible. We are here between ſix and ſeven hundred, of all ages and of all ranks, taken from our homes, and from all that uſually makes the comfort of life, and crowded together under many of the inflictions that conſtitute its miſery; yet, in the midſt of all this, we fiddle, dreſs, rhyme, and viſit as ceremoniouſly aſ though we had nothing to diſturb us. Our beaux, after being correctly frizz'd and powdered behind ſome door, compliment the belle juſt eſcaped from a toilet, performed amidſt the apparatus of the kitchen; three or four beds are piled one upon another to make room for as many card-tables; and the wits of the priſon, who are all the morning employed in writing doleful placets to obtain their liberty, in the evening celebrate the loſs of it in bout-rimees and acroſtics.
I ſaw an aſs at the Corps de Garde this morning laden with violins and muſic, and a female priſoner ſeldom arrives without her complement of bandboxes.—Embarraſſed, ſtifled as we are by our numbers, it does not prevent a daily importation of lap-dogs, who form as conſequential a part of the community in a priſon, as in the moſt ſuperb hotel. The faithful valet, who has followed the fortunes of his maſter, does not ſo much ſhare his diſtreſſes as contribute to his pleaſure by adorning hiſ perſon, or, rather, his head, for, excepting the article of hair-dreſſing, the beaux here are not elaborate. In ſhort, there is an indifference, a frivolity, in the French character, which, in circumſtances like the preſent, appears unaccountable. But man is not always conſiſtent with himſelf, and there are occaſions in which the French are nothing leſs than philoſophers. Under all theſe externals of levity, they are a very prudent people, and though they ſeem to bear with infinite fortitude many of the evils of life, there are ſome in which their ſenſibility is not to be queſtioned. At the death of a relation, or the loſs of liberty, I have obſerved that a few hourſ ſuffice, pour prendre ſon parti; [To make up his mind.] but on any occaſion where his fortune has ſuffered, the livelieſt Frenchman is au deſeſpoir for whole days. Whenever any thing is to be loſt or gained, all his characteriſtic indifference vaniſhes, and his attention becomeſ mentally concentrated, without diſſipating the habitual ſmile of hiſ countenance. He may ſometimes be deceived through deficiency of judgment, but I believe not often by unguardedneſs; and, in a matter of intereſt, a petit maitre of five-and-twenty might tout en badinage [All in the way of pleaſantry.] maintain his ground againſt a whole ſynagogue.—This diſpoſition is not remarkable only in affairs that may be ſuppoſed to require it, but extends to the minuteſt objects; and the ſame oeconomy which watches over the maſs of a Frenchman's eſtate, guards with equal ſolicitude the menu property of a log of wood, or a hen's neſt.