To commence the history of the French Revolution with the opening of the States-General in 1789 is as unphilosophical as to commence the history of the American Revolution with the battle of Lexington. No man can comprehend this fearful drama who does not contemplate it in the light of those ages of oppression which ushered it in. It is in the horrible despotism of the old monarchy of France that one is to see the efficient cause of the subsequent frantic struggles of the people.
"The Revolution," says De Tocqueville, "will ever remain in darkness to those who do not look beyond it. Without a clear view of society in the olden time, of its laws, its faults, its prejudices, its sufferings, its greatness, it is impossible to understand the conduct of the French during the sixty years which have followed its fall."[2]
There is often an impression that the Revolution was a sudden outbreak of blind unthinking passion—a tempest bursting from a serene sky; or like a battle in the night—masses rushing blindly in all directions, and friends and foes in confusion and phrensy smiting each other. But, on the contrary, the Revolution was of slow growth, a storm which had been for centuries accumulating. The gathering of the clouds, the gleam of its embosomed fires, and the roar of its approaching thunders arrested the attention of the observing long before the storm in all its fury burst upon France. A careful historic narrative evolves order from the apparent chaos, and exhibits, running through the tumultuous scene of terror and of blood, the operation of causes almost as resistless as the operation of physical laws.
The writer has freely expressed his judgment of the transactions which he has narrated. "The impartiality of history," says Lamartine, "is not that of a mirror which merely reflects objects; it should be that of a judge who sees, listens, and decides."[3] The reader will not be surprised to find that some occurrences which historians caressed in regal courts and baronial halls have denounced as insolent and vulgar are here represented as heroic and noble.
Every generous heart will respond to the sentiment uttered, in this connection, by Thiers. "I have endeavored to stifle," he says, "within my own bosom every feeling of animosity. I alternately figured to myself that, born in a cottage, animated with a just ambition, I was resolved to acquire what the pride of the higher classes had unjustly refused me; or that, bred in palaces, the heir to ancient privileges, it was painful to me to renounce a possession which I regarded as a legitimate property. Thenceforth I could no longer harbor enmity against either party. I pitied the combatants, and I indemnified myself by admiring generous deeds wherever I found them."[4]
One simple moral this whole awful tragedy teaches. It is, that the laws must be so just as to command the assent of every enlightened Christian mind, and the masses of the people must be trained to such intelligence and virtue as to be able to appreciate good laws and to have the disposition to maintain them. Here lies the only hope of our republic.
The illustrations which embellish these pages are from the artistic pencil of Mr. C.E. Doepler, who went to Paris that he might with more historical accuracy delineate both costumes and localities. To the kindness of Messrs. Goupil & Co. we are indebted for the privilege of copying the exquisite engraving of Marie Antoinette at the Revolutionary tribunal, which forms the Frontispiece.
John S. C. Abbott.
Brunswick, Maine, Nov., 1858.
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