Paris.
Though the gentleness of French manners qualifies in some degree the
severity of the government; as I observed in a former letter, still the
condition of the common people is by no means comfortable.
When we consider the prodigious resources of this kingdom; the advantages
it enjoys above almost every other country in point of soil, climate,
and situation; the industry and ingenuity of the inhabitants, attached
by affection to their Kings, and submissive to the laws; we naturally
expect that the bulk of the nation should be at their ease, and that
poverty should be as little known here as in any country of Europe. I
do not speak of that ideal or comparative poverty, the child of envy and
covetousness, which may be felt by the richest citizens of London or
Amsterdam; or of the poverty produced in capitals by gaming, luxury, and
dissipation: But of that actual poverty which arises when the laborious
part of a nation cannot acquire a competent share of the necessaries of
life by their industry.
The two first flow from the vices and extravagance of individuals:—The
other from a bad government.
Much of the first may be found in London, where more riches circulate
than in any city of Europe; of the last there is little to be seen in the
country of England.
The reverse of this is the case in France, where the poorest inhabitants
of the capital are often in a better situation than the laborious
peasant. The former, by administering to the luxuries, or by taking
advantage of the follies of the great and the wealthy, may procure a
tolerable livelihood, and sometimes make a fortune; while the peasant
cannot, without much difficulty, earn a scanty and precarious subsistence.
To have an adequate idea of the wealth of England, we must visit the
provinces, and see how the nobility, the gentry, and especially the
farmers and country people in general live. The magnificence of the
former, and the abundance which prevails among the latter classes, must
astonish the natives of any other country in Europe.
To retain a favourable notion of the wealth of France, we must remain
in the capital, or visit a few trading or manufacturing towns; but must
seldom enter the chateau of the Seigneur, or the hut of the peasant. In
the one, we shall find nothing but tawdry furniture, and from the other
we shall be scared by penury.
A failure of crops, or a careless administration, may occasion distress
and scarcity of bread among the common people at a particular time: But
when there is a permanent poverty through various reigns, and for a
long tract of years, among the peasantry of such a country as France;
this seems to me the surest proof of a careless, and consequently an
oppressive government. Yet the French very seldom complain of their
government, though often of their governors; and never of the King, but
always of the minister.
Although the enthusiastic affection which the people of this nation once
felt for their present monarch be greatly abated, it is not annihilated.
Some of the courtiers indeed, who are supposed to administer to the
King’s pleasures, are detested. The imprudent ostentatious luxury of
the mistress, is publicly execrated; but their censure of the King,
even where they think themselves quite safe, never bursts out as it
would in some other nations, in violent expressions, such as, Curse his
folly,—his weakness, or—his obstinacy. No: Even their censure of him is
intermingled with a kind of affectionate regret.—Naturellement il est
bon, they say.—And when they observe the deplorable anxiety and disgust
in his countenance, which are the concomitants of a constitution jaded
by pleasure, and of a mind incapable of application, they cry, Mon Dieu,
qu’il est triste!—Il est malheureux lui-même;—comment peut il penser à
nous autres?
I am persuaded, that, in spite of the discontent which really subsists
at present in France, the King might recover the esteem and affection of
his subjects at once by the simple manœuvre of dismissing his minister,
and a few other unpopular characters. A Lettre de cachet, ordering them
to banishment, or shutting them up in the Bastille, would be considered
as a complete _revolution_ of government, and the nation would require no
other _Bill of Rights_ than, what proceeded from this dreadful instrument
of tyranny.
As matters are at present, in my opinion, no body of men in France has,
properly speaking, any rights. The Princes, the noblesse, and the clergy,
have indeed certain privileges which distinguish them in different
degrees from their fellow-subjects: but as for rights, they have none;
or, which amounts to the same thing, none which can defend them, or which
they can defend against the Monarch, whenever he in his royal wisdom
chooses to invade or annihilate them.
A Frenchman will tell you, that their parliaments have the right of
remonstrating to the throne upon certain occasions.—This is a precious
privilege indeed! the common-council of London are in possession of this
glorious right also, and we all know what it avails. It is like the
power of which Owen Glendower boasted—“calling spirits from the vasty
deep.”—But the misfortune was, that none came in consequence of his call.
The parliaments of Paris can indeed remonstrate; and have done it with
such strength of reasoning and energy of expression, that if eloquence
were able to prevail over unlimited power, every grievance would have
been redressed.
Some of these remonstrances display not only examples of the most sublime
and pathetic eloquence, but also breathe a spirit of freedom which would
do honour to a British House of Commons.
The resistance which the members of the parliament of Paris made to the
will of the King, does them the greatest honour. Indeed the lawyers in
France have displayed more just and manly sentiments of government, and
have made a nobler struggle against despotic power, than any set of men
in the kingdom. It has therefore often affected me with surprise and
indignation, to observe the attempts that are made here to turn this body
of men into ridicule.
One of this profession is never introduced on the stage but in a
ridiculous character. This may give satisfaction to the prince, whose
power they have endeavoured to limit, or to thoughtless slavish
courtiers; but ought to be viewed with horror by the nation, for whose
good the gentlemen of the long-robe have hazarded so much; for in their
opposition to the court, much personal danger was to be feared, and no
lucrative advantage to be reaped.
Those who oppose the court measures in our island incur, I thank Heaven,
no personal risk on that account.—A member of the British parliament may
launch his patriotic bark in the most perfect security:—He may glide
down the current of inventive, spread all his canvas, catch every gale,
and sail for an hour or two upon the edge of treason, without any risk
of being sucked into its whirlpool. But though he has nothing to fear,
it is equally evident that he has nothing to hope from such a voyage.
Opposition was formerly considered as a means of getting into power: Mais
nous avons changé tout cela. Let any one recollect the numbers who, with
very moderate abilities, have crawled on their knees into office, and
compare them with the numbers and success of those who, armed with genius
and the artillery of eloquence, attempt the places by storm; if, after
this, he joins the assailants, he must either act from other motives than
those of self-interest, or betray his ignorance in the calculation of
chances.
The security, and even the existence, of the parliament of Paris,
depending entirely on the pleasure of the King, and having no other
weapons, offensive or defensive, but justice, argument, and reason,
their fate might have been foreseen—the usual fate of those who have no
other artillery to oppose to power:—The members were disgraced, and the
parliament abolished. The measure was considered as violent; the exiles
were regarded as martyrs; the people were astonished and grieved. At
length, recovering from their surprise, they dissipated their sorrow, as
they do on all occasions of great calamity,—by some very merry songs.