Paris.
In a former letter, I mentioned good breeding as a striking part of the
French national character. Loyalty, or an uncommon fondness for, and
attachment to, the persons of their princes, is another.
An Englishman, though he views the virtues of his king with a jealous eye
during his reign, yet he will do them all justice in the reign of his
successor.
A German, while he is silent with respect to the foibles of his prince,
admires all his talents much more than he would the same qualities in any
other person.
A Turk, or Persian, contemplates his Emperor with fear and reverence, as
a superior being, to whose pleasure it is his duty to submit, as to the
laws of Nature, and the will of Providence.
But a Frenchman, while he knows that his king is of the same nature,
and liable to all the weaknesses of other men; while he enumerates his
follies, and laughs as he laments them, is nevertheless attached to him
by a sentiment of equal respect and tenderness; a kind of affectionate
prejudice, independent of his real character.
_Roi_[1] is a word which conveys to the minds of Frenchmen the ideas of
benevolence, gratitude, and love; as well as those of power, grandeur,
and happiness.
They flock to Versailles every Sunday, behold him with unsated curiosity,
and gaze on him with as much satisfaction the twentieth time as the first.
They consider him as their friend, though he does not know their persons;
as their protector, though their greatest danger is from an Exempt or
Lettre de Cachet; and as their benefactor, while they are oppressed with
taxes.
They magnify into importance his most indifferent actions; they palliate
and excuse all his weaknesses; and they impute his errors or crimes, to
his ministers or other evil counsellors; who (as they fondly assert)
have, for some base purpose, imposed upon his judgment, and perverted the
undeviating rectitude of his intentions.
They repeat, with fond applause, every saying of his which seems to
indicate the smallest approach to wit, or even bears the mark of
ordinary sagacity.
The most inconsiderable circumstance which relates to the Monarch is
of importance: whether he eat much or little at dinner; the coat he
wears, the horse on which he rides, all afford matter of conversation in
the various societies at Paris, and are the most agreeable subjects of
epistolary correspondence with their friends in the provinces.
If he happens to be a little indisposed, all Paris, all France, is
alarmed, as if a real calamity was threatened: and to seem interested, or
to converse upon any other subject till this has been discussed, would be
considered as a proof of unpardonable indifference.
At a review, the troops perform their manœuvres unheeded by such of the
spectators as are within sight of the King. They are all engrossed in
contemplation of their Prince.—Avez vous vu le roi?—Tenez—ah!—voilà le
roi.—Le roi rit.—Apparemment il est content.—Je suis charmé,—ah, il
tousse!—A-t-il toussé?—Oui, parbleu! et bien fort.—Je suis au désespoir.
At mass, it is the King, not the Priest, who is the object of attention.
The Host is elevated; but the people’s eyes remain fixed upon the face of
their beloved Monarch.
Even the most applauded pieces of the theatre, which in Paris create
more emotion than the ceremonies of religion, can with difficulty divide
their attention. A smile from the King makes them forget the sorrow of
Andromaché, and the wrongs of the Cid.
This excessive attachment is not confined to the person of the Monarch,
but extends to every branch of the royal family; all of whom, it is
imagined in this country, have an hereditary right to every gratification
and enjoyment that human nature is capable of receiving. And if any
cause, moral or physical, impede or obstruct this, they meet with
universal sympathy. The most trivial disappointment or chagrin which
befals them, is considered as more serious and affecting, than the most
dreadful calamity, which can happen to a private family. It is lamented
as if the natural order of things were counteracted, and the amiable
Prince, or Princess, deprived, by a cruel phænomenon, of that supreme
degree of happiness, to which their rank in life gives them an undeniable
title.
All this regard seems real, and not affected from any motive of interest;
at least it must be so with respect to the bulk of the people, who can
have no hopes of ever being known to their princes, far less of ever
receiving any personal favour from them.
The philosophical idea, that Kings have been appointed for public
conveniency; that they are accountable to their subjects for
mal-administration, or for continued acts of injustice and oppression;
is a doctrine very opposite to the general prejudices of this nation. If
any of their kings were to behave in such an imprudent and outrageous
manner as to occasion a revolt, and if the insurgents actually got the
better, I question if they would think of new-modelling the government,
and limiting the power of the crown, as was done in Britain at the
Revolution, so as to prevent the like abuses for the future. They never
would think of going further, I imagine, than placing another prince
of the Bourbon family on the throne, with the same power that his
predecessor had, and then quietly lay down their arms, satisfied with
his royal word or declaration to govern with more equity.
The French seem so delighted and dazzled with the lustre of Monarchy,
that they cannot bear the thoughts of any qualifying mixture, which might
abate its violence, and render its ardour more benign. They chuse to give
the splendid machine full play, though it often scorches and threatens to
consume themselves and their effects.
They consider the power of the king, from which their servitude proceeds,
as if it were their own power. You will hardly believe it; but I am sure
of the fact: They are proud of it; they are proud that there is no check
or limitation to his authority.
They tell you with exultation, that the king has an army of near two
hundred thousand men in the time of peace. A Frenchman is as vain of
the palaces, fine gardens, number of horses, and all the paraphernalia
belonging to the court of the Monarch, as an Englishman can be of his own
house, gardens, and equipage.
When they are told of the diffusion of wealth in England, the immense
fortunes made by many individuals, the affluence of those of middle
rank, the security and easy situation of the common people; instead of
being mortified by the comparison which might naturally occur to their
imaginations, they comfort themselves with the reflection, that the court
of France is more brilliant than the court of Great Britain, and that the
duke of Orleans and the Prince of Condé have greater revenues than any of
the English nobility.
When they hear of the freedom of debate in parliament, of the liberties
taken in writing or speaking of the conduct of the king, or measures
of government, and the forms to be observed, before those who venture
on the most daring abuse of either can be brought to punishment, they
seem filled with indignation, and say with an air of triumph, C’est bien
autrement chez nous: Si le Roi de France avoit affaire à ces Messieurs
là, il leur apprendroit à vivre. And then they would proceed to inform
you, that, parbleu! their minister would give himself no trouble about
forms or proofs; that suspicion was sufficient for him, and without more
ado he would shut up such impertinent people in the Bastille for many
years. And then raising their voices, as if what they said were a proof
of the courage or magnanimity of the minister—Ou peut-être il feroit
condamner ces drôles là aux galères pour la vie.
[1] We translate le Roi, by ‘the King,’ which is by no means
equivalent. Le Roi does himself, and makes others do, what he
pleases. The King cannot do what he pleases, but does what
others please.