C. Sneyd Edgeworth

Memoirs of the Abbé Edgeworth

At this moment of universal peace, when we see the Bourbons re-established on the throne of their ancestors, the mind passing over the scene of bloodshed and tyranny that has intervened, naturally looks back to that period, when a legitimate sovereign swayed the sceptre of France.

It is twenty-two years since the murder of Louis the Sixteenth; and yet his funeral sermon has but just been delivered; the mournful procession has but lately blackened the streets of Paris;  p.2 and many a faithful heart, that long had grieved in secret, has at length received the consolation of public sympathy, and the elevating sanction of religion. At such a period, it is impossible not to recollect him, whose pious heroism supported that unfortunate monarch in his last moments.

The Editor of the following memoir, who is one of the Abbé Edgeworth's nearest surviving relations, has endeavoured to collect some particulars of his life.

This he considered as a tribute justly due to the memory of a man, who has acted such a distinguished part in the events of the French revolution.

The Editor has perhaps felt another motive for writing these memoirs, — an honest pride in claiming relationship  p.3 with one, whose virtues have so distinguished him among his fellow-creatures, and whose conduct must secure for him such an honourable place in history.

An Ancient writer has observed, that the great or good actions of a distinguished character not only confer dignity upon his posterity, but reflect a lustre upon his ancestors; consequently, some account of the ancestors of so distinguished an individual as the Abbé Edgeworth, cannot be uninteresting.

Henry Essex Edgeworth, the subject of this memoir, was descended from Francis Edgeworth, who came with his brother Edward to Ireland, in the reign of queen Elizabeth, about the year 1582. Francis was Clerk of the Hanaper in the reign of James the First, and Edward was, about the same time, Bishop  p.4 of Down and Connor. Captain John Edgeworth, son of Francis, married for his second wife Mrs. Bridgman, widow of Edward Bridgman, of Lancashire, who was brother to the Lord Keeper. Captain John Edgeworth had a son by a former wife, and Mrs. Bridgman had a daughter by a former husband: this daughter was an heiress of considerable property. Soon after Capt. Edgeworth's arrival in Ireland, the young people intermarried, and had a number of sons, from whom the present families of the name are descended. In 1671, Captain Edgeworth was knighted at Whitehall by James the Second; an honour which he was anxious to decline; for his principles were so averse to the Stuart family, that at the Revolution Sir John Edgeworth and his sons raised a regiment  p.5 for King William, of which he was appointed Colonel; his eldest son, Francis, was Lieut.-Colonel; and his sons, Robert and Henry, held Captains' commissions under their father; his fifth son, Essex, was grandfather to the Abbé Edgeworth; he was bred at the university of Dublin, for holy orders, and was first presented to the living of Granard, in the county of Longford. His assiduous attention to his parishioners, and his unblemished life of active devotion, recommended him to Goodwin, Bishop of Kilmore and Ardagh, who gave him the living of Temple-Michael, which is considered the best preferment in the diocese of Ardagh. When he waited on the Bishop, to return him thanks for an advancement, for which he had never made the slightest application, the Bishop  p.6 told him, he did not deserve his thanks; “for,” said he, “if I had known a better man in my diocese than you, I should have given the benefice to him.”

The Bishop had reason to congratulate himself on having chosen a man, whose increase of income only enlarged his sphere of benevolence. His pious and useful efforts were ably assisted by his wife, who was a daughter of Sir Robert King, of Rockingham, in the county of Roscommon.

Their eldest son, Robert, father of the Abbé Edgeworth, married the granddaughter of the justly celebrated Archbishop Ussher. Robert was presented to the living of Edgeworthstown, in the county of Longford, which he enjoyed for some years, and in the vicarage-house  p.7 Henry Essex Edgeworth came into the world. ¹

It is singular that the great grandson of Archbishop Ussher, born, baptized, and at first nurtured in the very bosom of the established religion, under the eye of his cousin's family, whose attachment to the Protestant faith was almost proverbial, should render himself conspicuous in that church, the doctrines of which every branch of his family, but his own, zealously dissented from.

When he was four years of age, Henry's father determined to give up his preferment, which he could no longer conscientiously hold, and to remove with his family to France. The  p.8 children of Mr. Edgeworth, the proprietor of Edgeworthstown, and their little cousins, were allowed to take leave of each other at the house of Mr. Edgeworth's agent; and this parting scene is still remembered by the family. — Robert, Henry, and their sister, were taken by their parents to Toulouse. A younger son, whose name was Ussher, remained in Ireland. The family were enabled to establish themselves at Toulouse, from the income of some estate which Mr. Robert Edgeworth possessed in the county of Longford, part of which was called Firmount, whence Henry afterwards took his title of Abbé de Firmont.

It is to be regretted that the Editor could obtain no particulars of the early life and education of the Abbé. He  p.9 could learn only that Henry was educated at Toulouse, by his parents, in the Romish faith, which they had adopted; that in due time he entered the university of Toulouse, where rhetoric and the classics were his favourite studies. After the death of his father, the Abbé's eldest brother Robert, returned to Ireland to take possession of his property; and the subject of these memoirs went, at the recommendation of his friend, Dr. Moylan, late titular Bishop of Cork, to Paris, under the care of the venerable Abbé de la Roche, superior of the seminary of Trente Trois, ² or the Holy Family. At this seminary the Abbé resided, and after going through a course of philosophy at the college of Navarre, and of theology at the Sorbonne, his  p.10 ardent desire to devote himself to a clerical life was gratified. After he was ordained, Mr. Edgeworth retired to the seminary of Les Missions Etrangeres, Rue du Bacq. “The capital of France,” says M. l'Abbé de Bouvens, ³ “now became the theatre of the Abbé Edgeworth's apostolic labours. It was in this immense city, where all the passions ferment, and where vice, with so much art, presents itself under such a variety of forms, that he commenced his ministry. ”****** “Never did man shew more invariable benignity and gentleness, or a piety more consoling to his fellow-creatures. This evangelical man was often seen with a countenance  p.11 radiant with joy, surrounded by the poor, and by the lower orders of workmen of Paris, leading them to his tribunal of peace.”

He devoted his time early every morning to the instruction of the poor Savoyards of Paris, whom he attended in his parish church. The rest of his day was chiefly employed in study and in prayer. His virtues, his talents, and the services he rendered to his church, could not long remain unknown in Paris; and the fame of his exemplary conduct, and of his useful zeal, in due time reached his native country. “There many respectable prelates, who were at the head of the Irish Catholic church; and who, whilst they watched over the interests of that church, wished, in the true spirit of the gospel, to restrain  p.12 party animosities, thought that the Abbé Edgeworth was a man of all others the most capable of seconding their wise and prudent zeal. They now appreciated the value of the treasure of which France had robbed them, and wishing to recover it, they offered the Abbé a bishoprick in Ireland.”

The Abbé, feeling that he was of more use in Paris than he could hope to be any where else, and the strong representations on the subject which he received from his own confessor, and the urgent entreaties of those who were under his care, determined him not to abandon his charge, or change his humble situation for any dignities or temporal advantages that could be offered to him. It was thus that his unaffected humility and piety  p.13 were the means under Providence of retaining him in that country, where he was afterwards to act so distinguished a part; and whilst he was thus retiring from the only chance of temporal distinction which, in the ordinary course of his life, was likely ever to occur, he was actually fixing in that situation which would best prepare him for the heroic part he was afterwards to perform. In this situation he continued in the daily habitual sacrifice of every selfish consideration to a sense of duty, and of every temporal advantage or pleasure to his exalted sense of religion. Perfectly free from all desire of fame, and even without any wish of attracting the attention of the superiors of his church, he persevered in his pious mission. His conduct  p.14 and his character were however silently and justly appreciated.

On the death of her Confessor, the Princess Elizabeth wrote to the Superior of Les Missions Etrangeres; and requested that he would recommend another to her. He, who was acquainted with all the ecclesiastics in Paris, selected the Abbé Edgeworth, as one of the most virtuous and enlightened, in whom the Princess might place implicit confidence. It was necessary that this choice of the Confessor to the Princess Elizabeth should he confirmed by the Archbishop of Paris. Mr. Edgeworth had obtained his esteem and regard. The Archbishop introduced him at court; and as soon as the Abbé became known, he was respected; and actually venerated  p.15 by the amiable Princess, whose devotions he was appointed to direct. By her means he became known and esteemed by many other members of the royal family.

From this period till the commencement of the French revolution, the Abbé, fulfilling his duties, left no trace of his history, except in the hearts of those to whom his virtues were intimately known. He entered into no court intrigues, no popular cabals. The feelings with which he saw the rise and progress of the French revolution, especially as it concerned religion, and particularly the religion which he professed, can be learnt from the following letters, which were addressed by him to his highly esteemed friend, Dr. Moylan.

To The Right Rev. Dr. Moylan, Cork, Ireland. Paris, 2lst May, 1789
MY LORD AND EVER DEAR FRIEND,

I have been long in your debt; but it is my head and not my heart you must accuse. Other men, with twice my business, find time for all; their days are long enough; mine, of late, fly away, I know not how; and they are commonly too short for the little I have to do.

I cannot return you too many thanks for the kind desire you express of seeing me fixed on my native soil. Indeed the prospect of living on the same land with you, and of enjoying now and then your company, is a most powerful attraction to my heart. But, alas! it is the only  p.17 one I feel. Ireland is a foreign country to me. You are almost the only friend I count in it. Thirty-eight years absence have broke the very ties of blood with some of my relations, and weakened them with all. The language itself sounds odd in my ears, for want of use; and the few lines I am writing to you are a laborious task for me. What I say of the language, I must likewise say of the laws, the manners, the customs, &c. — they are all foreign to me: and on my native land I would be as much a stranger as you would be in Italy or Spain: add to this, that of all the posts I could fill in Ireland, those alone that would be adapted perhaps to my weak abilities, and which I would really prefer, (country parishes), would be over-toilsome for a shattered constitution  p.18 like mine: for though much better in my health to-day than I was a year or two ago, I am still far from being a strong man.

I am convinced, my Lord and dear friend, that if you weigh all this as impartially as I have done, from time to time, you will confess that few men are less calculated for the mission of Ireland than me. Nay, that of all our clerical absentees, I am perhaps the one whose loss is less to be regretted.

I cannot say, however, that, in my present situation, I am totally lost for my own country. Formerly I worked a good deal among the French; but since I have been condemned by the physicians to draw in, my labours if I can call them so, are almost entirely confined within the narrow circle of  p.19 English and Irish whom Providence brings over to Paris: so that if I come to fail, another priest must be sent over from Ireland to supply my place. In fact, I see no spot in Europe better calculated for me than the house I am in. All that displeases me of it is, that it does not cut off at once all communication between me and the world, which would be my greatest ambition; for I perceive every day, more and more, how hard it is to work for others without neglecting oneself. You have heard of our riots; they were soon quelled; but many hundreds lost their lives in them. Our states are sitting. The clergy and nobility behave well in general; but the commoners do not agree with them, God alone knows how matters will turn out.

 p.20

My brother and family desire to be remembered to you and yours in the warmest terms.

I must subscribe abruptly,
My Lord,
Your servant and friend,
Edgeworth.

Paris, 28th Oct. 1789. From the same to the same
MY LORD AND EVER DEAR FRIEND,

I wrote to you a couple of months ago, by Mr. Burke, but gave you then no news, as the bearer had been eye-witness to all our troubles, and could tell you more in one half hour's conversation than I could have done in three pages.

Since that time our affairs, far from  p.21 mending, seem to grow worse and worse. The republican party still prevails. Our King, the best of men, has been obliged to quit Versailles, and come to Paris, where he now resides, (how freely I leave you to judge). The National Assembly has followed him, and holds its sessions in the Archbishop's palace, until a more commodious place can be fitted up. We have no loss than thirty thousand men under arms, mostly composed of our petit bourgeois de Paris, as nice and delicate as you may easily suppose. The same, with due proportion, must be said of every town and village in France; for they all seem to vie with the capital, and aspire to the privilege of governing themselves. I suppose your journals have given you a full account of this  p.22 amazing revolution; and I am very sure you have been tempted, more than once, to suppose the circumstances exaggerated, if not absolutely false; but you must not judge of the French to-day by what they were a few years ago. No nation in the world has ever undergone so complete a change of principles in so short a time. Modern philosophy has broke all religious, all social ties. Incredulity has crept down from the master to the groom; and if things go on a few years longer, the French will have nothing remaining of that they formerly were, but their language and their name. Indeed, what we now see with our own eyes, is, according to me, a stronger confutation of our new systems, than all the polemical essays that have been levelled against them.

 p.23

God alone knows what the issue will be. But in all likelihood, if France is to be saved from utter ruin, she will be indebted for her new life to the remote provinces, where corruption of principles does not so universally prevail. I am told, that some of them complain already of the national meeting, and these complaints may easily be propagated from one province to another. But then a civil war must ensue, which is an evil still greater than all those we now experience. In the meanwhile our Assembly goes on cutting down, as they say, all the remnants of barbarity and ignorance. To-morrow the great question, “is the church revenue a private property, or the property of the nation,” is to be discussed  p.24 and finally determined. If it be declared the property of the nation, as most people apprehend it will, the consequence is obvious: all may be seized; and bishops, curates, vicars, can be reduced to a salary.

There you have, my dear friend, the outlines of our present situation. Near three hundred of our deputies have lost patience, and taken various pretexts to get away. Unfortunately they who remain are not the best. The Archbishop of Paris is one of those who has eloped. His life was threatened, and he thought it prudent to leave France. A countryman of ours, son to the unfortunate General Lally, one of the most sensible members of the Assembly, has also steered aloof; but before  p.25 leaving France, he published a most excellent performance against all that was doing at the States.

My mother and sister join in most respectful compliments to you and your's. They are both upon the watch, and intend leaving France, if our troubles grow worse. I shall accompany them wherever they go, (probably to London); but must come back, as it would be unbecoming a soldier to quit his post for fear of a cannon ball. I must request of you to return your sister my thanks, for the little bottle of salts she has been so kind as to send me: if to this favour she will add her prayers, of which I stand much in need, my gratitude will be unbounded. I finish without ceremony, and without signature, as I speak too plain.

 p.26

We have lost one of the most holy prelates of the church of France — the Bishop of Boulogne. His successor is an acquaintance of your's,— Mr. Asseline, with whom you lived at Trente-Trois. The choice has been universally applauded.

From the same to the same
MY LORD AND TRULY DEAR FRIEND,

Your favour of the 25th ult. came to hand this afternoon. By what chance my last to you was so long delayed upon the road I cannot imagine. Perhaps it was opened at the post-office here; for though we receive daily assurances that we are a free people, I doubt it still: and the only difference I  p.27 find between past and present times, is, that we formerly were happy slaves, whereas at present we are very slavish freemen. However, I did well not to sign my letter; and I ask you for the future the same permission.

I cannot tell by words how grateful I am for the tender concern you express for me and mine. Indeed I have had within these few months past some painful moments on account of my mother. I would have wished her out of a country, where she finds no longer what she came to seek in it; but her age, her infirmities, and the sedentary life she has lead these twelve years past, made me apprehend the consequences of a long journey much more than the daily riots of the place. I have therefore put off, from week to week, urging a change of  p.28 place. However, we have often spoke of it, as of a thing that might become necessary, if matters continued bearing so dismal an aspect in France: and I can assure you, that of all spots in Ireland, the one her heart warms to most is Cork. She has hinted this to me over and over; and I need not tell you what the load-stone is. But if things go on as they have done since the King resides in Paris, it would be a rash step, at her time of life, to undertake so long a journey; for we now enjoy peace; the Court goes hand in hand with the National Assembly; all the decrees are sanctioned without resistance, and the Monarch seems to have laid aside all thoughts of retrieving his authority. As long as he continues so, there can be no source of disturbances, unless the  p.29 provinces rise against the metropolis, or some great man makes a party to save the crown; both which are equally improbable; for, in the provinces as well as in the capital, the republican spirit seems to prevail. It is impossible to say how far the National Assembly means to go; but you may depend upon it, we have not seen half as yet. You have heard of the famous decree, by which all church revenues are declared to be at the free disposition of the nation. Since that day, they have done little or nothing in regard to ecclesiastical matters, being wholly taken up with other affairs; but if we can judge by the pamphlets which are daily spread about, many other objects, such as public worship for all sects, abolition of vows, divorce in a more extensive  p.30 sense than Protestants themselves allow it, marriage of priests, &c. will be proposed and strenuously urged for; but with what success God alone can tell. As for myself, I must allow that my former ties to France are now much weakened, and that the prospect of finishing my days with you is particularly enticing: but, alas! my dear friend, what would you do with me? I should be mere lumber in your diocese. You want strong and laborious operators; and I am not that. I must own to you, that from the beginning of our troubles, I had some thoughts of leaving France for good and all; but after taking advice from people who knew me, I resolved to stand my ground; or, if obliged to accompany my mother, to come back to my post. The reason  p.31 given to me was, that Almighty God seemed to bless my weak exertions here, and of course that I should not give up my little flock, unless clearly called by Providence to some other place, especially as the little I do was mostly in favour of people who could not well do without me, or without some other person, who would equally be lost to the mission. Indeed, all other reasons aside, I am so accustomed to a community life, that I would not know how to live in the world.

I must recommend to your pastoral solicitude a young man of your diocese, actually studying medicine in Paris. His father sent him hitherto a competent supply for his studies; but after a silence of many months, (which has obliged the poor young man to go into  p.32 debt for five guineas), he writes to him coldly, that he can support him no more. Could you speak to the father, and engage him to alter this cruel sentence; or, if in an absolute impossibility of supporting his son, until the end of his studies, which would be a great pity, as he is a very promising youth, to send him at least wherewith to pay his little debts, and defray the expenses of his journey home? The father's name is Fitzgerald, a cooper, in Cork.

A speedy answer would be an act of charity to the poor young man. I forgot asking in what street he lives; but his son tells me he is not unknown to you, having been formerly your class-fellow. My mother desires to be remembered to you in the warmest terms; my sister joins her, and will write to  p.33 Miss Moylan by the first sure hand. I must finish, and subscribe — Amicus quo non amicior alter.

The Editor has carefully copied these letters from the originals in his possession, not venturing to alter the inaccuracies of style or orthography, which betray the Abbé's estrangement from his native language, and that he not only habitually expressed himself, but usually thought in French.

The sympathy of the public has been too long engaged by letters in rounded periods, full of affected description and pompous frivolity, composed to be handed about amongst literary gossips, during the life, and to be splendidly  p.34 published at the death of the writer; but some readers will dwell with interest on the genuine simplicity of these humble epistles. They never could have been intended for the public eye: — their very defects become their recommendation.

The illiberal, who suppose that something dangerous must flow from the pen of every Papist, when writing in — confidence to a brother-clergyman, will be surprised to find in these letters neither bigotry nor treason. They shew the unambitious character, and the pious occupations of the writer. It is to be regretted, that of these pursuits so little can be retraced; seldom could the reader have accompanied so pure a character in his path through life. Could we follow him from his morning to his evening devotions, we should find  p.35 the interval filled up with none of those inconsistencies, which so often make the good sigh, and the wicked sneer.—

In the midst of splendour, when the great, perplexed with intrigue and flattery, sought for simplicity and truth; in scenes of squalid misery, where repenting vice had crept to die; in the convent, or in the drawing-room, the Abbé Edgeworth was always the same.

— His serene countenance diffused tranquillity wherever he appeared. So great was the fascination of his manners, that their influence alone convinced those who were too weak to examine for themselves, that his religious tenets were well founded. It happened that an American gentleman, in the suite of La Fayette, spent a day in the society of the Abbé Edgeworth. He was so struck  p.36 by his manners, and the excellence of his sentiments on every subject upon which he conversed, that he declared that he would adopt the Abbé de Firmont's religion, as he was convinced, from his serenity, that it must be the best. In vain did La Fayette represent that this was no criterion — in vain remind the youth that his parents, who were Presbyterians, would never forgive him for so rash a determination. — He was resolved — embraced the Roman Catholic faith — took orders — returned to America, and became a zealous controversial writer. With controversy our Abbé did not interfere; content with the sure and blameless course of his peaceful calling. His kindness and his charity led the way to the hearts of his flock, and no doubts of the truth of  p.37 what he taught disturbed their understandings.

He was unambitious also of making proselytes. When one of his cousins, who is a Protestant, was in Paris in the year 1788, he visited at her house; shewed her every attention in his power; but never spoke on religious subjects.

With the elder branch of the family the Abbé Edgeworth did not correspond. He had been so long absent from Ireland, that they were personally strangers to him. They knew him only by reputation, and by the descriptions which they had heard from his elder brother Robert, with whom they had become acquainted when he came to Ireland to take possession of his estate. Robert was a most amiable young man, and had an enthusiastic affection and  p.38 reverence for the Abbé. He has been dead many years; and whatever letters or papers he possessed, went of course into the hands of the younger brother, Ussher, who remained in Ireland. Mr. Ussher Edgeworth survived the Abbé some years; and as the brothers corresponded, great hopes were conceived of obtaining from him letters and interesting accounts of the Abbé. But during his life nothing could be learned from him on this subject. Though an excellent man, who had no occasion for artifice, yet he was ever reserved and mysterious; and though benevolent, and easily imposed upon by those who appealed to his feelings, yet with others he was circumspect and suspicious. He was naturally of an uncommonly timid disposition, and this apprehensive  p.39 temperament was probably increased by a feeble constitution, and the circumstances in which he was placed. He had never distinctly avowed his religious tenets; and, during many years of his life, he lived in perpetual dread of an inquiry into his title to his estates. At that time the penal laws against the Catholics were in force: these have since, happily for Ireland, for family peace, for social confidence, and for the true interests of the Christian religion, been repealed. But it often happens, that habits of mind continue after the causes by which they were first induced are removed; and long after the original motives are forgotten, they seem automatically to govern the thoughts and the actions. So it happened in the case of this worthy, but superabundantly cautious gentleman.

At his death, which happened a few years ago, a diligent search was made among his papers, by his executor, in consequence of an application from the writer of this memoir. But there is reason to fear, that the too careful brother burnt all the Abbé's letters that were in his possession; even the original of the interesting narrative of the events that preceded and followed the death of Louis the Sixteenth, which the Abbé had written to his brother: But for a copy of this valuable document the Editor is indebted to the Rev. Dr. Moylan, who, alas! is now beyond the reach of any tribute of human gratitude.

Before we read this private letter, which gives a particular detail of his own perils and adventures, it will be  p.41 proper to lay before the reader what is more of an historical document, an account which the Abbé Edgeworth wrote of the last moments of Louis the Sixteenth. ⁴

An Account of the last moments of Louis the Sixteenth, written by the Abbé Edgeworth.

The fate of the King was not yet decided, when M. de Malesherbes, to whom I had not the honour of being  p.42 personally known, and who could neither ask me to his house, nor come to mine, requested me to meet him at Mad. de Senosan's, where I accordingly waited on him.

There M. de Malesherbes delivered to me a message from the King, ⁵ signifying the wish of that unfortunate monarch that I should attend him at his last moments, if the atrocity of his subjects should be contented with nothing less than his death. This message was conveyed in terms, which I should have  p.43 thought it my duty to suppress, if they did not demonstrate the excellence of that prince, whose tragical end I am going to relate. He carried the delicacy of his expressions so far, as to ask as a favour, the services he had a right to demand from me as a duty. He claimed them as the last proof of my attachment. He hoped that I would not refuse him. He added, that if the danger to which I must be exposed, should appear to me too great, he begged that I would name another clergyman to attend him. He left the choice entirely to me.

Any man would have felt himself inclined to comply with such a message. I felt it as a command that could not be disobeyed; and I conjured M. de Malesherbes to represent to the King all that  p.44 a feeling heart, broken by grief, dictated to me at the moment.

Several days past away, and hearing nothing said, I indulged the hope that the King would only be banished, or that at least his fate would be deferred for some time; when, on the 20th of January, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a stranger called on me, and presented to me a note, containing these words: “The Executive Council having business of the highest importance to communicate to Citizen Edgeworth de Firmont, invites him to come instantly to its sittings.” — The stranger added, that he had orders to accompany me, and that a carriage waited for us in the street. I went with him to the Tuileries, where the Council held its meetings. I found all the ministers assembled.  p.45 Consternation appeared in their countenances. As soon as I entered, they arose, and all surrounded me with eagerness. The Minister of Justice first addressed me. “Are you,” said he, “the Citizen Edgeworth de Firmont?” I replied that I was. “Louis Capet,” continued the Minister, “having expressed to us his desire to have you near him at his last moments, we have sent for you to know whether you consent to the service he requires of you.” — I replied, that since the King had signified his wishes, and named me, it became my duty to attend him. “Then,” pursued the Minister, “you will go with me to the Temple, whither I will conduct you.” — And immediately taking a bundle of papers from the table, whispered  p.46 a moment with the other Ministers, and going out in haste, ordered me to follow him. An escort of horse waited for us at the door with the Minister's carriage, into which I got, and he followed me. At this time all the Catholic clergy of Paris were dressed like other citizens, so that I was not in a clerical dress; but recollecting what I owed to the King, who had not been accustomed to such a costume, and to religion itself, which received for the first time a sort of homage from the new government, I thought I ought, on this occasion, to resume the exterior marks of my station; at least to make the attempt, appeared to me a duty. I mentioned it to the Minister before we quitted the Tuileries; but he rejected my proposition,  p.47 in terms that prevented my further insisting upon it, though without using any offensive language towards me.

Our drive to the Temple passed in gloomy silence. Two or three times, however, the Minister made an attempt to break it: he drew up the carriage windows, and exclaimed, “Great God, with what a dreadful commission am I charged!” “What a Man!” added he, speaking of the King. “What resignation! what courage! —no! — human nature alone could not give such fortitude; he possesses something beyond it.” — Such expressions gave me an excellent opportunity for speaking some unwelcome truths; but I hesitated an instant what course I should pursue; for I reflected, that my first duty was to afford the King the religious  p.48 consolations he had so earnestly desired; and that by giving vent to the indignation the conduct of my companion and his associates had inspired me with, I should probably be forbidden to approach my royal Master. I therefore resolved on absolute silence. The Minister seemed to comprehend my motives, and said not a word during the remainder of our drive. We arrived at the Temple, and the first gate was instantly opened to us; but when we reached the building which separates the court from the garden, we were stopped; and before we could proceed, it was necessary that the commissaries of the tower should come and examine us, and ascertain our business; even the Minister seemed subject to this form. We waited for the commissaries  p.49 near a quarter of an hour without speaking to each other, at last they appeared. One of them was a young man of about seventeen or eighteen, they saluted the minister as an acquaintance; he told them in a few words who I was, and the nature of my mission; they made a sign to me to follow them, and we all together crossed the garden to the tower. Here the scene became horrible beyond description: the door of the tower, though very narrow and very low, opened with a terrible noise, it was loaded with iron bolts and bars; we passed through a hall filled with guards, into a still larger hall, which appeared from its shape to have been once a chapel. There the commissaries of the commune, who had the custody of the King were assembled, I could not discover  p.50 in their countenances that embarrassment or consternation which had struck me in the ministers. There were about twelve of them, mostly in the dress of Jacobins.

Their air, their manners, their sangfroid, all denoted them to be men of desperate minds, who did not shrink from the contemplation of the blackest crimes.

But in justice, I ought to say, that this is not a portrait of them all; and I thought I could discover some, who had been induced from the weakness of their character to associate with the rest. Whatever might be their respective feelings, they were all taken indiscriminately by the minister into a corner of the apartment, where he read to them in a low voice, the papers which he had  p.51 brought from the Tuileries. When he had done, he turned suddenly to me, and desired me to follow him, but this the council opposed by acclamation: again they assembled in the corner of the hall, deliberating some time in whispers; the result was, that one half of the assembly accompanied the Minister, who went up stairs to the King, while the other half remained to guard me. When the doors were carefully closed, the oldest of the commissaries approached me with a polite but embarrassed air, spoke of the terrible responsibility he was under, and begged a thousand pardons for the liberty he was obliged to take. I guessed that this preamble was to end in my being searched, so I anticipated him, by saying, that since the reputation of M. de Malesherbes could not excuse  p.52 him from this formality, I could not flatter myself that when I came to the Temple, an exception would be made in my favor. I assured him, that I had nothing about me that could be suspected, but added, that he was welcome to satisfy himself: notwithstanding this declaration, the search was made with rigour; my snuff box was opened, the snuff examined; and a little steel pencil case, which happened to be found in my pocket, was carefully inspected, to discover whether it concealed a poniard!

They paid no attention to any papers I had about me, and finding every thing else unexceptionable, they renewed the excuses with which they had begun, and invited me to sit down; but I had scarcely done so, when two of the commissaries, who had gone up  p.53 to the King, came to tell me that I was allowed to see him. They conducted me by a winding staircase, which was so narrow that two persons could hardly pass each other; at certain intervals barriers were placed across the stairs, and at every barrier stood a sentinel; these men were actual sans culottes, and almost all drunk; the shouts they made, re-echoing through the vaults of the Temple, were quite horrible.

When we reached the apartment of the King, all the doors of which were open, I perceived him in a group of eight or ten persons; it consisted of the Minister of Justice, accompanied by some Members of the Commune, who came to read to him the fatal decree, which sentenced him to death on the following day. He was calm, tranquil,  p.54 even with an aspect of benignity, while not one of those, who surrounded him, had an air of composure.

As soon as he saw me, he waved his hand for them to retire, they obeyed in silence, he himself shut the door after them, and I found myself alone with my sovereign.

Till this moment I had been able to command the various emotions with which I had been agitated; but at the sight of a prince, who had been once so great, and who was now so unfortunate, I was no longer master of myself, I could not restrain my tears, and I fell at his feet without the power of utterance. This touched him more than the decree, which he had just heard; he answered my tears only by his own; but soon resuming all his firmness, —  p.55 “Forgive me,” said the King, “forgive me, sir, a moment's weakness, if such it can be called; for a long time I have lived among my enemies, and habit has in some degree familiarized me to them; but when I behold a faithful subject, this is to me a new sight, a different language reaches my heart, and in spite of my utmost efforts I am melted:” — saying these words, he kindly raised me from the ground, and led me into his closet, that he might speak more freely, for from his chamber all he said was over-heard. This closet or cabinet was built in one of the turrets of the Temple, it had neither hangings nor ornament, a bad stove served for a fire-place, and the only furniture was one table and three leathern chairs. There, making me sit down near him,  p.56 “Now, sir,” said he, “the great business of my salvation is the only one which ought to occupy my thoughts. The only business of real importance! What are all other subjects compared to this? This must, however, be delayed for a few moments, because my family are coming to take leave of me for ever. In the mean time here is a paper that I wish you to read.” As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a sealed paper, and broke it open. It was his will, which he had made in the month of December, at a period when he was uncertain whether any religious assistance would be allowed to him in his last moments.

All those who have read this paper, so interesting and so worthy of a Christian King, can easily judge of the deep  p.57 impression it must have made on me. But what most astonished me, was that the monarch had fortitude sufficient to read it himself, which he did nearly twice over. His voice was firm, and no change was to be seen in his countenance, except when he read names most dear to him — then all his tenderness was awakened, he was obliged to pause a moment, and his tears flowed notwithstanding his efforts to restrain them — but when he read passages that concerned himself alone, and that related only to his personal calamities, he seemed no more affected than if he had heard the misfortunes of an indifferent person related.

Perceiving when he had finished reading, that the Royal Family were not coming, the King hastened to enquire  p.58 from me the state of his clergy and of the French church. Some things he had learned notwithstanding the rigour of his confinement; he knew in general that the French ecclesiastics had been obliged to fly their country, and had been received in London, but he was entirely ignorant of particulars. The little that I thought it my duty to tell him, seemed to make a great impression upon his Majesty's mind; he deplored the fate of his clergy, and he expressed the greatest admiration for the people of England, who had mitigated their sufferings. But he did not confine himself to these general enquiries, he entered into particulars that surprised me; he wished to know what had become of many of the clergy in whose welfare he took a peculiar interest. The Cardinal  p.59 de la Rochefoucault and the Bishop de Clermont, seemed to fix his attention, but his eagerness redoubled at the name of the Archbishop of Paris: he inquired where he was, what he was doing, and whether I had the power of corresponding with him: — “Tell him,” said the King, “that I die in his communion, and that I never have acknowledged any pastor but him; alas! I am afraid he is offended at my not answering his last letter, I was then at the Tuileries, but in fact my enemies kept so close to me at that period, that I had not time to write; at all events he has so much goodness of heart, that I am sure he will pardon me.” His Majesty spoke also of the Abbé Floriae, whom he had never seen; but he was well acquainted with the services which  p.60 this respectable divine had rendered to the diocese of Paris, in times of the greatest difficulty: his Majesty asked me, what had been his fate, and when I told him that he had had the good fortune to effect his escape, he spoke of him in terms which evinced the value he attached to his services, and the esteem in which he held his virtues. I don't know by what chance the conversation fell upon the Duke of Orleans; the King seemed to be well-acquainted with his intrigues, and with the horrid part he had taken at the convention, but he spoke of him without any bitterness, and with pity rather than with anger: “What have I done to my Cousin,” he exclaimed, “that he should so persecute me? What object could he have? Oh he is more to be pitied than I am! —  p.61 my lot is melancholy no doubt, but his is much more so. No! I would not change with him!”

This most interesting conversation was interrupted by one of the commissaries, who came to inform the King that his family were come down, and that he was at length permitted to see them. At these words he appeared extremely agitated, and he broke from me with precipitation. The interview took place, as well as I could judge, for I was not present at it, in a little room which was only separated by a glass-door from that which the commissaries occupied; so that they could see and hear all that past. Even I, though shut up in the cabinet where the King had left me, could easily distinguish their  p.62 voices, and I was involuntarily in some degree witness to the most touching scene I ever heard. It would be impossible for me to describe this agonizing interview; not only tears were shed, and sobs were heard, but piercing cries, which reached the outer court of the Temple. The King, the Queen, Monseigneur, the Dauphin, Madame Elizabeth, Madame Royale, all bewailed themselves at once, and their voices were confounded; at length their tears ceased, for their strength was exhausted: they then spoke in a low voice, and with some degree of tranquillity.

The conversation lasted near an hour, and the King parted from his family, leaving them the hope of seeing him in the morning.

 p.63

He returned immediately to me, but in a state of agitation which shewed that he was wounded to the soul.

“Oh, sir!” cried he, throwing himself into a chair, “what an interview have I gone through. Why should I love so tenderly, and why should I be so tenderly beloved? But it is past! Let us forget every thing else to turn my thoughts to that alone which is now of importance —to that which should at this moment concentrate all my feelings.”

He was continuing to speak in this manner, which shewed at once his sensibility and his courage, when Clery came to entreat him to take some refreshment. The King hesitated a moment, but after some reflection consented. The supper did not last more than five minutes, and the King retiring  p.64 into his closet, begged me to follow him. I had scarcely strength to rise, but the dread of giving him pain made me comply. One thought had strongly weighed upon my mind, since I had been so near the King. I determined to procure the means of administering the sacrament to his Majesty, at any risk to myself, since he had been so long deprived of the opportunity of receiving it. I should have brought the elements in secret with me, as we were obliged to do to all good Christians, who were detained in their own houses; but the strict search it was necessary to submit to in coming to the Temple, and the profanation which would infallibly have followed, were motives more than sufficient to have presented me. There remained no other resource than for me  p.65 to say mass in the King's chamber, if I could find the means. I proposed it to him, but though he desired it most ardently, he seemed afraid of compromising my safety. I entreated him to give me his consent, promising that I would conduct myself with prudence and discretion. He at length yielded, “Go, sir,” said he, “but I very much fear you will not succeed, for I know the men, with whom you have to deal, they will grant nothing which they can refuse.” Fortified by this permission, I desired to be conducted to the hall of council, and there I made my demand in the name of the King. This proposal, for which the commissaries of the tower were not prepared, disconcerted them extremely, and they sought for different pretexts to elude it.  p.66 How could they find a priest at that hour; and when they had got one, how obtain all that was necessary. “The priest is already found,” I replied, “for I am he; and as for the rest, the nearest church will supply all that is necessary, if you will make the application. You will consider that my demand is just, and that it would be against your own principles to refuse me.” One of the commissaries instantly, though rather in guarded terms, insinuated that my request was only a snare; and that under the pretence of giving the communion to the King, I intended to poison him. “History has furnished us with examples enough of this kind to make us circumspect,” said he. I looked steadily in the face of this man, and replied: “The strict  p.67 search I underwent as I came in here, ought to convince you that I do not carry poison. If then to-morrow any is found, it must be from you that I shall have received it; all that I demand for the celebration of mass, must pass through your hands.”

He would have replied, but the rest commanded him to be silent; and for a last subterfuge they said, that as the council was incomplete they could not decide upon any thing; but that they would go for the absent members, and then tell me the result of their deliberations.

A quarter of an hour past, and I was again brought into their chamber, where the President thus addressed me, “Citizen, minister of religion, the council have taken into consideration the request that you have made, in the  p.68 name of Louis Capet; and since they deem his request conformable to the law, which declares that all forms of worship are free, they consent to it; nevertheless we exact two conditions. The first, that you draw up instantly an address containing your demand, signed by yourself; and the second, that your religious ceremonies should be concluded by seven o'clock tomorrow, at the latest; for at eight precisely, Louis Capet must set out for the place of execution.”

These last words were said like all the rest, with a degree of cold blooded indifference, which characterised an atrocious mind.

I put my request in writing, and left it on the table. They re-conducted me to the King, who awaited with anxiety  p.69 the conclusion of this affair. The summary account, which I gave him, in which I suppressed all particulars, pleased him extremely.

It was now past ten o'clock, and I remained with the King till the night was far advanced; when perceiving that he was fatigued, I requested him to take some repose. He complied with his accustomed kindness, and charged me to lie down also. I went by his desire into a little closet which Clery occupied, which was separated from the King's chamber only by a thin partition; and whilst I was occupied by the most overwhelming thoughts, I heard the King tranquilly giving directions for the next day, after which he lay down on his bed.

At five o'clock, he rose and dressed  p.70 as usual. Soon afterwards he sent for me, and I attended him for near an hour in the cabinet, where he had received me the evening before. When I retired, I found an altar completely prepared in the King's apartment, the commissaries had executed to the letter every thing that I had required of them: they had even done more than I had asked, I having only demanded what was indispensable.

The King heard mass, he knelt on the ground without cushion or desk, he then received the sacrament, after which ceremony I left him for a short time at his prayers; he soon sent for me again, and I found him seated near his stove, where he could scarcely warm himself.

“My God,” said he, “how happy I am in the possession of my religious  p.71 principles! Without them, what should I now be? But with them, how sweet death appears to me. Yes, there dwells on high an incorruptible judge, from whom I shall receive the justice refused to me on earth.”

The sacred offices I performed at this time, prevent my relating more than a few sentences, out of many interesting conversations which the King held with me, during the last sixteen hours of his life; but by the little that I have told, it may be seen how much might be added, if it were consistent with my duty to say more.

Morning began to dawn, and the drums sounded in all the sections of Paris. An extraordinary movement was heard in the tower — it seemed to freeze the blood in my veins; but the King,  p.72 more calm than I was, after listening to it for a moment, said to me without emotion, “'Tis probably the national guard beginning to assemble.”

In a short time detachments of cavalry entered the court of the Temple, and the voices of officers, and the trampling of horses, were distinctly heard. The King listened again, and said to me, with the same composure, “They seem to be approaching.”

On taking leave of the Queen, the evening before, he had promised to see her again next day, and he wished earnestly to keep his word, but I intreated him not to put the Queen to a trial under which she must sink; he hesitated a moment, and then, with an expression of profound grief, said, “You are right, sir, it would kill her. I must  p.73 deprive myself of this melancholy consolation, and let her indulge in hope a few moments longer.”

From seven o'clock till eight, various persons came frequently under different pretences to knock at the door of the cabinet, and each time I trembled lest it should be the last. But the King, with more firmness, rose without emotion, went to the door, and quietly answered the people who thus interrupted us. I do not know who these men were, but amongst them was one of the greatest monsters that the Revolution had produced; for I heard him say to his King, in a tone of mockery, I know not on what subject, “Oh that was very well once, but you are now no longer King.” His Majesty did not reply a word, but returning to me, satisfied himself by  p.74 saying, “See how these people treat me. But I know how to endure every thing.”

Another time, after having answered one of the commissaries who came to interrupt us, he returned, and said with a smile, “These people see poniards and poison every where, they fear that I shall destroy myself. Alas! they little know me, to kill myself would indeed be weakness. No! since it is necessary, I know how I ought to die.” We heard another knock at the door — it was to be the last. It was Santerre and his crew. The King opened the door as usual. They announced to him (I could not hear in what terms,) that he must prepare for death. “I am occupied,” said he, with an air of authority, “wait for me. In a few minutes I will  p.75 return to you.” Then having shut the door, he kneeled at my feet. “It is finished, sir,” said he, “give me your last benediction, and pray that it may please God to support me to the end.” He soon arose, and leaving the cabinet, advanced towards the wretches who were in his bed-chamber. Their countenances were embarrassed, yet their hats were not taken off, and the King perceiving it, asked for his own. Whilst Clery, bathed in tears, ran for it, the King said, “Are there amongst you any Members of the Commune? I charge them to take care of this paper.” It was his will. One of the party took it from the King. “I recommend also to the Commune, Clery, my valet de chamber. I can do no more than congratulate myself in having had his  p.76 services. They will give him my watch and clothes; not only those I have here, but those that have been deposited at the Commune. I also desire, that in return for the attachment he has shewn me, he may be allowed to enter into the Queen's — into my wife's service:” he used both expressions. No one answering, the King cried out in a firm tone, “Let us proceed,” at which words they all moved on; the King crossed the first court, formerly the garden, on foot: he turned back one or twice towards the tower, as if to bid adieu to all most dear to him on earth; and by his gestures it was plain that he was then trying to collect all his strength and firmness. At the entrance of the second court, a carriage waited, two gend'armes held the door: at the King's  p.77 approach one of these men entered first, and placed himself in front, the King followed and placed me by his side; ⁶ at the back of the carriage, the other gend'arme jumped in last, and shut the door.

It is said that one of these men was a priest in disguise; for the honor of religion I hope that this may be false. It is also said, that they had orders to assassinate the King on the smallest murmur from the people; I do not know whether this might have been their design, but it seems to me, that unless they possessed other arms than those that appeared,  p.78 it would have been difficult to accomplish their purpose; for their muskets only were visible, which it would have been impossible for them to have used. These apprehended murmurs were not imaginary, a great number of people devoted to the King had resolved on tearing him from the hands of his guards, or at least on making the attempt. Two of the principal actors, young men whose names are well known, found means to inform me the night before of their intentions; and though my hopes were not sanguine, I yet did not despair of rescue, even at the foot of the scaffold. I have since heard, that the orders for this dreadful morning had been planned with so much art, and executed with so much precision, that of four or five hundred people, thus devoted  p.79 to their prince, twenty-five only succeeded in reaching the place of rendez-vous. In consequence of the measures taken before day-break in all the streets of Paris, none of the rest were able to get out of their houses.

The King finding himself seated in the carriage, where he could neither speak to me or be spoken to without witness, kept a profound silence. I presented him with my breviary, the only book I had with me, and he seemed to accept it with pleasure: he appeared anxious that I should point out to him the psalms that were most suited to his situation, and he recited them attentively with me. The gend'armes, without speaking, seemed astonished and confounded at the tranquil piety of their  p.80 monarch, to whom they doubtless never had before approached so near.

The procession lasted almost two hours, the streets were lined with citizens, all armed, some with pikes and some with guns, and the carriage was surrounded by a body of troops, formed of the most desperate people of Paris. As another precaution, they had placed before the horses a great number of drums, intended to drown any noise or murmur in favor of the King; but how could they be heard, nobody appeared either at the doors or windows, and in the street nothing was to be seen but armed citizens. Citizens, all rushing towards the commission of a crime, which perhaps they detested in their hearts.

 p.81

The carriage proceeded thus in silence to the Place de Louis XV. and stopped in the middle of a large space that had been left round the scaffold; this space was surrounded with cannon, and beyond, an armed multitude extended as far as the eye could reach. As soon as the King perceived that the carriage stopped, he turned and whispered to me, “We are arrived, if I mistake not.” My silence answered that we were. One of the guards came to open the carriage door, and the gensd'armes would have jumped out, but the King stopped them, and leaning his arm on my knee, “Gentlemen,” said he, with the tone of majesty, “I recommend to you this good man, take care that after my death no insult be offered to him, — I charge you to prevent it.” The two  p.82 men answered not a word, the King was continuing in a louder tone, but one of them stopped him, saying, “Yes, yes, we will take care. Leave him to us;” — and I ought to add, that these words were spoken in a tone of voice which must have overwhelmed me, if at such a moment it had been possible for me to have thought of myself. As soon as the King had left the carriage, three guards surrounded him, and would have taken off his clothes, but he repulsed them with haughtiness: he undressed himself, untied his neckcloth, opened his shirt, and arranged it himself. The guards, whom the determined countenance of the King had for a moment disconcerted, seemed to recover their audacity. They surrounded him again, and would have seized his hands.  p.83 “What are you attempting?” said the King, drawing back his hands. “To bind you,” answered the wretches. “To bind me,” said the King, with an indignant air, “No! I shall never consent to that, do what you have been ordered, but you shall never bind me.” The guards insisted, they raised their voices, and seemed to wish to call on others to assist them.

Perhaps this was the most terrible moment of this most dreadful morning; another instant, and the best of Kings would have received from his rebellious subjects, indignities too horrid to mention — indignities that would have been to him more insupportable than death. Such was the feeling expressed on his countenance. Turning towards me, he looked at me steadily, as if to ask my advice.

 p.84

Alas! it was impossible for me to give any, and I only answered by silence; but as he continued this fixed look of enquiry, I replied, “Sire, in this new insult, I only see another trait of resemblance between your Majesty and the Saviour who is about to recompence you.” At these words he raised his eyes to heaven, with an expression that can never be described. “You are right,” said he, “nothing less than his example should make me submit to such a degradation.” Then turning to the guards, “Do what you will, I will drink of the cup even to the dregs.”

The path leading to the scaffold was extremely rough and difficult to pass, the King was obliged to lean on my arm, and from the slowness with which he proceeded, I feared for a moment that  p.85 his courage might fail; but what was my astonishment, when arrived at the last step, I felt that he suddenly let go my arm, and I saw him cross with a firm foot the breadth of the whole scaffold; silence, by his look alone, fifteen or twenty drums that were placed opposite to him; and in a voice so loud, that it must have been heard at the Pont Tournant, I heard him pronounce distinctly these memorable words. “I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge; I pardon those who have occasioned my death; and I pray to God, that the blood you are now going to shed may never be visited on France.”

He was proceeding, when a man on horseback, in the national uniform, waved his sword, and with a ferocious cry,  p.86 ordered the drums to beat. Many voices were at the same time heard encouraging the executioners. They seemed reanimated themselves, and seizing with violence the most virtuous of Kings, they dragged him under the axe of the guillotine, which with one stroke severed his head from his body. All this passed in a moment. The youngest of the guards, who seemed about eighteen, immediately seized the head, and shewed it to the people as he walked round the scaffold; he accompanied this monstrous ceremony with the most atrocious and indecent gestures. At first an awful silence prevailed; at length some cries of “Vive la Republique!” were heard. By degrees the voices multiplied, and in less than ten minutes this  p.87 cry, a thousand times repeated, became the universal shout of the multitude, and, every hat was in the air.

It is remarkable, that in this account of the last moments of Louis the Sixteenth, the Abbé Edgeworth has omitted to relate that fine apostrophe, which every body has heard, and which every body believes that he addressed to his King, at the moment of execution, “Fils de St. Louis montez au ciel!”

The Abbé Edgeworth has been asked if he recollected to have made this exclamation. He replied, that he could neither deny nor affirm that he had spoken the words. It was possible, he added, that he might have pronounced  p.88 them without afterwards recollecting the fact, for that he retained no memory of any thing that happened relative to himself at that awful instant. His not recollecting or recording the words, is, perhaps, the best proof that they were spoken from the impulse of the moment.

With characteristic modesty and propriety of feeling, the Abbé closes his narrative at the death of the King. The reader, however, will be anxious to know how he escaped from the imminent peril of his situation; left at the foot of the scaffold—a priest—the confessor of the King—surrounded by a mob of regicides and atheists. Of this miraculous escape we have an account in the following letter, from the Abbé to his brother.

In the beginning of this letter, the  p.89 reader will pardon some recapitulation of what he already knows; it was thought best not to attempt to garble it, but to leave it in its genuine state. It is written with such simplicity and pathos, that it can scarcely fail to interest the public; and it teaches the excellent lesson, that a steady adherence to duty, a courage that faces danger, and a firm reliance on Providence, are the surest preservatives of life and character.

Letter from the Abbé Edgeworth to his brother Ussher Edgeworth

Written originally in English.

1st Sept. 1796 London,

I am sure my dear Ussher will be agreeably surprised to hear I have at  p.90 last escaped from France, and am now safe landed on British ground. My dismal story during these four last years, will no doubt be a matter of some curiosity for him; but were I to write it at large, a volume would hardly suffice; the outlines thereof, is therefore all he can expect from me to day, and to them I shall confine myself, until, in happier times, I can give him my history at large.

To begin with what gave rise to all, I must tell you (what perhaps you have never known) that hazard, if hazard be not an empty word, brought me acquainted a few years ago, with Madam Elizabeth of France, one of the most accomplished and (I really do believe) without exception, the most virtuous Princess then existing in Europe.— Though a foreigner, and in every respect  p.91 little entitled to the honor of her acquaintance, I soon became a friend, and she placed an unbounded confidence in me; still I was neither personally known to either the King or Queen, they were indeed no strangers to my name, and in these latter times, often expressed their astonishment, upon hearing how freely I resorted to the Palace, whilst round about all was terror and woe. The fact is, that I never apprehended the danger to be what it really was; and whilst no clergyman dared to appear at Court, if not completely disguised, I went there in open day, once or twice every week, without ever changing my dress. Indeed, when I turn my thoughts upon these shocking times, I am amazed to have been so bold, but Providence, I suppose, blinded me on purpose; and  p.92 in reality, though my presence always occasioned a little bustle amongst the guards, I never received any insult from them. Thus I continued until the eve of the fatal day, on which the Royal Family was arrested; for the 9th of August, 1792, (I remember it well,) Madam Elizabeth desired to see me, and I spent a good part of the morning in her closet, little aware of the scene of horror that was preparing for the tenth. I shall give no account of the cruel manner in which the royal family were treated on the occasion, as I suppose those public facts are well known to you; and for the present must restrain my narration to what regards myself. Hitherto the revolution had in some measure respected me, and though deeply affected by the misfortunes of  p.93 my friends, my person and little property still remained untouched; but I soon had my turn, and a woeful one it was indeed. No sooner had the King been transferred from the Convention-Hall to the Temple, but my house, Rue du Bacq, was broke open at midnight, by an armed gang, of forty or fifty men. I was fast asleep, and the room I occupied lying far from the street, they were already within doors before I awoke; but as they advanced, breaking down whatever opposed their passage, I started from my rest; and concluding, from the horrid noise with which my ears were struck, that my last hour was come, I really had no other thought, but that of recommending my soul to God, and preparing for death. Upon reflection, however, I  p.94 thought it better to face the danger, than to be murdered in my bed. I therefore flew to my door, before it was broken down, and on opening it, the first object I perceived was a dozen of villains holding torches in their hands, and armed with every instrument of death; a kind of officer seemed to be at their head, and to him I walked up, demanding with more assurance than I really had, what was the meaning of all this noise, at such a time of night: he looked at me in the face with an insolence not to be described, and after viewing me a few minutes, “you are not the person,” said he.

But soon after, as if he repented to have relieved my mind by these words, he came up to me again, and rushing into my room, he demanded to see my  p.95 papers. This proposal was a thunderbolt to me, for I had papers of some importance, and many of them, if too nicely viewed, might have brought me to the block; however, I affected sincerity, and as the number was too great to be examined in one night, I took care to cast in his way either insignificant pieces, or pieces which I supposed he would scarcely understand. This labour puzzled him vastly, and soon losing patience, he concluded I was not the person whom he was charged to arrest; but resolving not to quit the house without a capture, he turned to a friend of mine, who lodged under the same roof, and finding on the table a letter he had just received from Germany, in which there happened to be a few suspicious words, he hurried him  p.96 away to prison, where he was murdered a few days after, without any form of trial.

This horrid catastrophe, convincing me more and more, that the most innocent papers, might become fatal to their possessor, I resolved to sacrifice all those I had in my possession, though many of them were dear to me, and of real importance. Two days were spent in this painful task, and happy I was to have had the thought, for they were scarcely burned, when my house was assaulted a second time, but at midday, and with all the form of a regular pursuit, one hundred men at least were employed on this occasion; my papers were searched with a far more attentive eye than before. The inquest lasted until three o'clock in the morning, but all  p.97 suspicious pieces being destroyed, and no charge appearing against me, I was once more restored to peace. I cannot, however, but recollect with gratitude, a singular instance of the protection of God, which I received on the occasion; for, notwithstanding all my care to destroy whatever papers could bring suspicions on me, a letter, just received from the agent of Monsieur (now Louis XVIII.), had escaped my notice. It betrayed in very clear terms all my connexions with the court. The villains had it in their hands; but being fatigued; did not think of giving it a glance. I myself was unaware of its existence; but meeting it a few days after, and calling to mind in whose possession it had been, all my blood chilled in my veins, and I could not but acknowledge  p.98 with gratitude on this, though seemingly insignificant occurrence, the hand of all-ruling Providence.

These, and many other incidents of less moment, which I have not time to relate, happened from the 10th of August to the 2d of September, when a new scene of horror took place; but as I suppose you have read the history of these sanguinary days, I shall here abstain from unnecessary details, and confine my pen to what regards myself: suffice it therefore to say, that as soon as I heard the fire-bells, ⁷ by which the massacre was solemnly announced, and the uproar it occasioned in the town, a faithful servant was dispatched, to know what could be the cause thereof. The poor boy came back, half dead with  p.99 fright, informing me that the neighbouring prison (formerly a church, St. Sulpice) was broken open by the mob; that the prisoners, numbers of whom were my intimate friends, had already lost their lives; that the butchery was still going on; and that as soon as the assassins should have finished there, their intention was to come up to my house, Rue du Bacq. This indeed was distressing news; for the streets being crowded, and I well known by all, it was no easy matter to escape: however, as there was no time to lose, I instantly quitted my usual dress, and disguised as well as I could, I resolved to make an attempt to get off. This attempt succeeded beyond all my expectations. Not a soul appeared to take notice of me as I passed, and I was happy  p.100 enough to gain my mother's lodging, where I lay concealed during a few weeks.

But an idle report, whispered about at first, and, unfortunately for me, soon afterwards published in a journal, obliged me to quit my new abode, and seek for shelter in some more distant place. The story was, that M. L'Abbé de Firmont (for under this name I was commonly known in Paris) had taken party among the national guards, and profiting of his new disguise, found means to introduce himself into the Temple, where he had frequent conferences with Madame Elizabeth, and of course with the King himself. I am confident that this incoherent story was not believed by one single man of sense; but the suspicion alone was treason;  p.101 and the friends of the Royal Family, as well as my own, fearing the consequences, engaged me to leave Paris for a while, in order to discredit the report. I retired to Choisy, a small village, nine miles off.

Here I lay, completely unknown, under the name of Edgeworth, and reputed an English gentleman, of small fortune, of quiet dispositions, and retired from Paris in quest of peace. But I had not long been in this kind of solitude, when the Archbishop of Paris, obliged to fly from his diocese, vested me with all his powers, and charged me with the government of his flock; an awful trust, at any time, indeed; but, in the horrid confusion that now prevailed, a trust far beyond my capacity or strength. However, I deemed it a  p.102 duty to comply; and from that day, all my thoughts were bent upon returning to Paris. As I was debating in my own mind the different measures that should be taken, in order to discharge this office with as little danger as possible for myself, I was called upon to execute a still more awful trust.

The unfortunate Louis XVI, foreseeing to what lengths the malice of his enemies was likely to go, and resolved to be prepared at all events, cast his eyes upon me, to assist him in his last moments, if condemned to die. He would not make any application to the ruling party, nor even mention my name without my consent. The message he sent me was touching beyond expression, and worded in a manner which I never shall forget. A King, though in  p.103 chains, had a right to command; but he commanded not. My attendance was requested merely as a pledge of my attachment for him — as a favour, which he hoped I would not refuse. But as the service was likely to be attended with some danger for me, he dared not to insist, and only prayed (in case I deemed the danger to be too great) to point out to him a clergyman worthy of his confidence, but less known than I was myself, leaving the person absolutely to my choice.

This message, as you may believe, gave me more cause for reflection than any message I had received in my life. The general opinion was, that the clergyman called to that awful ministry would not survive his prince; and it must be allowed, that the horrid policy,  p.104 which prevailed at that time, made this opinion probable. However, as far as I can judge, this consideration was that which preyed least upon my mind; and, if I do not delude myself, I was perfectly resigned to my fate; but the confusion in which I saw the largest diocese of France, now committed to my care, was a consideration of far greater weight with me, as I clearly saw myself lost for it, whether I survived the King or not. Being obliged to take my party upon the spot, I resolved to comply with what appeared to be at that moment the call of Almighty God; and committing to his providence all the rest, I made answer to the most unfortunate of Kings, that whether he lived or died, I would be his friend to the last.

 p.105

As soon as I had given the final answer, I received orders to remain in Paris, and not to stir out of my house until I saw what turn affairs would take. Many days elapsed, and I leave you to judge in what tortures of mind they were spent: however, I profited of them to put my affairs in order, to make my will, and to provide as well as I could for the diocese, in case of my death: but the greatest difficulty was how to conceal all those dispositions from my mother and sister, with whom I then had taken up my abode. Having no better hiding place in Paris than a corner of their small apartment, where I took my meals, received crowds, and slept, thus I continued involved in business and anxiety until the 20th of January, when I received a note from the  p.106 Executive Council, worded as follows:

Le Conseil Executif Provisoire ayant une affaire de la plus haute importance à communiquer au Citoyen Edgeworth de Firmont, l'invite à passer, sans perdre un instant, au lieu de ses séances, &c.

The Provisionary Executive Council having an affair of the highest importance to communicate to Citizen Edgeworth de Firmont, requests him to attend, without delay, the place of their sittings.

It was five o'clock in the afternoon, and a coach was waiting at my door; but as I knew my poor mother would be alarmed to see me go out at that time of the night, whilst all was clangour in the streets, I sent immediately  p.107 for an intimate friend of her's, and trusted her with my secret, requesting of her to keep it until she had news of me; and I desired her to tell my mother, in the mean time, that I had been suddenly called upon to assist a dying person, and could not come home until morning. This quieted her completely; but my sister was no dupe. “Oh!” said she to her friend, “the dying person is the King. I always apprehended this moment for my brother; he is lost for me! but his duty is to go, and I must resign myself to my fate.”

Here, my dear Ussher, you will undoubtedly expect a full account of the most melancholy day that France ever saw, and of the dismal night that preceded it; but part of this account, I suppose, is well known to you; and  p.108 what still remains unpublished, I cannot commit to paper until I have seen the unfortunate remains of the Bourbon family, with whom I have never corresponded since. As soon as I have paid my duty to them, you shall be certainly the first informed, and see, perhaps, with astonishment, in the unfortunate Louis XVI., a prince, who, with every virtue, had but one fault, that of thinking too well of others, whilst he refused common justice to himself.

But to resume my private history, for that alone is what I mean to write, you will undoubtedly be curious to know by what fortunate circumstance I escaped the danger, which both friends and foes apprehended, on this occasion for my life. To this, the only answer I  p.109 can give is, that I really know it not. All I can say is, that as soon as the fatal blow was given, I fell upon my knees, and thus remained until the vile wretch, who had acted the principal part in this horrid tragedy, came with shouts of joy, shewing the bleeding head to the mob, and sprinkling me with the blood that streamed from it: then, indeed, I thought it time to quit the scaffold; but casting my eyes round about, I saw myself invested by twenty or thirty thousand men in arms, and to pierce the crowd seemed to me a foolish attempt: however, as I must take that part, or by remaining, appear to share the public joy, my only resource was to recommend myself to God, and turn my course towards the side on which the ranks seemed to have least depth.  p.110 All eyes were fixed upon me, as you may believe; but as soon as I reached the first line, to my great astonishment, no resistance was made; the second line opened in the same manner; and when I got to the fourth or fifth, my coat being a common surtout, (for I was not permitted, on this occasion, to wear any exterior marks of a priest), I was absolutely lost in the crowd, and no more noticed than if I had been a simple spectator of a scene, which for ever will dishonour France.

My first thought, upon finding myself alive and free, was to go in all speed to M. de Malesherbes, for whom the King had given me a most important message. I found the unfortunate old man bathed in tears. The account I gave him did not serve, as you may  p.111 believe, to wipe them away. But soon forgetting his own misfortunes, to rescue me, if possible, from those which he deemed to be still impending over me, “Fly,” says he to me, “fly, my dear Sir, from this land of horror, and from the tigers that are now let loose in it. No; they never will pardon the attachment you have professed for the most unfortunate of Kings; and what you have done this morning, is a crime which, sooner or later, they will revenge. I myself, though less exposed to their fury than you are, intend going, without delay, to my house in the country; but you, my dear Sir, it is not Paris alone, but France itself you must leave. For you I do not see a safe spot in it.”

This was undoubtedly the advice of friendship and foresight; but three  p.112 powerful considerations made me deaf to this proposal: — The diocese, to which I owed myself, as long as it was possible to hold my ground in it; Madame Elizabeth, with whom, notwithstanding her close confinement, I corresponded from time to time, and whom I had promised never to forsake; and, lastly, the King himself, who had given me some commissions of great importance, which it was impossible for me to execute if not in France. Hence, thinking I could reconcile all duties by absconding for a time, I wrote a note to my sister, informing her that I was alive; and as soon as it was duskish, I got into a carriage, and retired in great secrecy to a friend's, three leagues off. This friend, whose name must be no longer a secret for you, since to him  p.113 your brother owes his life, was the Baron de Lezardiere, a nobleman of unspotted character, advanced in years, and then living in opulence. He not only received me with open arms, but slighting all the dangers to which he exposed himself and family, by giving shelter to such a guest, he insisted upon my looking on his house as my own, and seeking out for no other place of refuge. There I received, during three months, every attention that the most delicate friendship could invent; and though the family was large, and the servants numerous, my existence was hardly perceived out of doors, so well the secret was kept.

I had not been long in this charming solitude, when I received information from Paris that my head was demanded  p.114 in three different clubs, and especially at the Jacobins', as the only atonement equal to my guilt, for having openly professed my attachment for the dying tyrant, &c. This was alarming news indeed; but a gazetteer (friend or foe, I know not) having published, a few days after, that I had got safe over to England, and there had frequent conferences, not only with the principal emigrants, but with Mr. Pitt himself, this idle story was credited by all, and I was completely forgotten.

However, the fiction, though favourable to me in one sense, distressed me much in other respects, as it obliged me to conceal myself more cautiously than ever; for had I been discovered in France after such a report, I must have been, in the eyes of government, no less  p.115 than an emissary from the court of England, an agent to the emigrants, and an emigrant myself — all titles that made my case the blacker, by adding to my former guilt. Hence I was obliged to keep within doors more than ever; nor could I venture out to Paris but by night. There I dared not to remain more than a day or two at a time; and though my house should have been open to all, since to all I owed myself, few people knew where it was, or how to get admittance into it. It is true, that from my solitude in the country, I entertained a large correspondence with the town; but all kind of business could not be transacted by letters; and I soon perceived, that the diocese committed to my care, far from prospering in my  p.116 hands, suffered materially from my absence.

In this distressing situation, and really not knowing what part to take, I wrote a long letter to the Archbishop, informing him of all, and demanding his advice; but, unfortunately for me, my letter, though directed to one of the commanding officers upon the frontier (who favoured under-hand my correspondence), was seized, opened, and sent back to the Comité de Salut Public. Soon after, the house of M. de Lezardiere, where I lay concealed, was assaulted in midday; and the whole family, supposing the storm to be directed against me alone, fell at my knees, requesting I would provide for my own safety, by a timely flight. I yielded,  p.117 though indeed with some reluctance, to their entreaties; and casting into the fire all my papers, I escaped by a back road into the fields, where I remained until it was dark. But how bitter was my grief, when coming back at night, I was informed that my valuable friend had been carried off to prison, with his youngest son and eldest daughter; and that upon the road to Paris, three different times, the blood-thirsty gang had held council, whether it was not best to shorten the business, by murdering them upon the spot. My mind was relieved a few days after (at least in some degree), by the positive assurances given me, that amongst the questions put to the three prisoners, upon their arrival in Paris, not a word had been said about me; which clearly  p.118 proved that I had not been the innocent cause of their misfortune; but my friend was not the less in danger (for prison and death now began to be synonymous terms in France), and my papers were lost forever.

This accident did not prove fatal to M. de Lezardiere; for after ten days confinement, he was dismissed. As to my papers, those I regret the most, and shall, in all probability, ever lament, were the letters written to me from the Temple, by Madame Elizabeth. I have already hinted to you (but this to you, and no other mortal, as the time for revealing is not yet come), that notwithstanding the unrelenting vigilance of her guardians, this unfortunate Princess found means to correspond with me from time to time, and to take  p.119 my advice on many critical occurrences during her imprisonment. These letters were conveyed to me in a ball of silk, and all measures so prudently taken, that the correspondence, though at last suspected, was never found out entirely. I had already destroyed, in one of my critical moments, all those she had written to me upon different subjects before her confinement; nor was I sensible of the loss, as she was still alive to repair it; but when I now reflect that she is no more, and that her last pages, bathed with her tears, and painting in so lively colours her resignation and her courage, are now lost for posterity, I cannot but lament it as a public misfortune.

But to return to my subject, the  p.120 poor officer, who had favoured my correspondence with the Archbishop of Paris, was soon called to an account for the anonymous letter that had been put into the post under his cover; and the affair being likely to take a very serious turn, not indeed for him, as he could plead ignorance of the contents, but for the author, whose existence in France could be no longer doubted, all my friends joined in requesting I would retire, without delay, to some remote province. I had only time to see my poor mother, whom I embraced for the last time, and to provide, as well as the circumstances would permit, for the government of the diocese. These two duties fulfilled, I got into a carriage, and, under the name of Essex, I got off  p.121 to Montigny, where M. le Comte de Roche Chouart received me with the greatest kindness in his castle.

Here my first business was to write to the faithful agent of Madame Elizabeth, giving her at full length my direction, in case she had any silk balls to send me. This letter was directed to her house, and signed Essex; but no sooner was it put into the post-office, than I was informed, that the very person to whom I wrote had been arrested a few days after I had left Paris, for favouring a clandestine correspondence of one of the royal prisoners; and also, that a friend of mine, being cited before the Comité de Salut Public, and questioned about the letter I had written to the Archbishop, had inadvertently discovered the name under which I was  p.122 endeavouring to conceal my existence. This was fatal indeed; for the letter I had just cast into the post-office being directed to a prisoner, must of course go to the Comité de Salut Public; and there the Comité found, without further inquiry, not only my hand-writing, to compare it with that of the anonymous letter written to the Archbishop, but my name full at length, and every means of discovering me, given by myself. I leave you to judge, my dear Ussher, into what perplexity I was cast by this accident. But Providence looked down upon my distress; and after a whole week spent in the most cruel anxiety, I at last had news from the person herself, informing me that the affair had been hushed up, and that my letter had got safe.

 p.123

I pass over in silence many incidents of less importance, which I met with during the four months I spent with M. de Roche Chouart; I must now relate the circumstance which obliged me to fly, and to seek for safer concealment. The Comité de Salut Public having got hold of the name under which I concealed myself in France, caused an article, relative to I know not what correspondence, supposed to have existed between Louis XVI. and the King of Prussia, to be inserted in the public papers. The article was insignificant in itself; but the author, in order to obtain more credit for his story, took care to tell the public, that he was indebted for the anecdote to “Mr. Essex, the last friend to Louis XVI.” Mr. Essex, a person who must  p.124 have been informed of all that had passed: this paper came to Montigny, where I was publicly known; and was then reputed to be an English gentleman of small fortune, travelling for his private business, or for his health; but this resemblance of names, and I know not what in my person, when nicely viewed, that betrayed a clergyman, soon gave rise to other thoughts. During the first days, I paid but little attention to what was whispered about, hoping that the author and the anecdote would be soon forgotten; but as I was thus endeavouring to tranquillize myself, a man advanced in years, and of most noble appearance, came up to the Castle, and enquired for Mr. Essex: he was introduced, and all witnesses being removed, he said, “Sir, your existence  p.125 in this house is no secret to the public, nor has it hitherto occasioned the least suspicion, as you had been supposed to be a man of no importance; but a paragraph inserted lately in the papers, is now the subject of all conversation, and all eyes in the neighbourhood are fixed upon you. Be so good as to read the article, and if in it you behold your own features; oh! my dear sir, give leave to a man, who was your friend, before he had the honour of seeing you, to request of you to provide for your own safety, by a timely flight, for here you will be infallibly arrested.”

This unexpected visit gave me, as you may believe, much alarm. I thanked the gentleman in the warmest terms; and after holding council with the few friends I had made, in that part of  p.126 France, it was unanimously resolved, that I must fly with all speed, and seek for shelter in some other place. I pitched upon Fontainbleau, as one of the quietest spots in France; there I had neither friends nor acquaintances except a lady, whom I had never seen but once. Apprized of my arrival, she flew to my assistance; her credit, her purse, her servants, all was at my disposal; and my own mother could not have done more for me, than she did during my stay in that place; but unfortunately it was not long, for an order was issued to arrest all foreigners, and for me arrestation was certain death. I therefore, was obliged once more to seek for safety in some other spot. The Baron de Lezardiere, who never lost sight of me amidst my distresses, had an old servant,  p.127 a man of uncommon resolution and prudence; him he dispatched to protect me in my flight. We both fell into the hands of an armed troop, appointed to examine all travellers, and to take up all those whom they might suspect; but the fierce and bold countenance of my companion got me off; and thanks to his zeal, I arrived without accident at Bayeux, in Normandy, two hundred miles from Paris.

Here I had it in my power to get off to England, as the coasts were but ill guarded. But Madame Elizabeth was still alive, and if she should be exposed to danger, I was resolved to keep my word, and to be her friend to the last, let the consequences be what they would for myself. Hence I stopped at Bayeux, and took up my lodging in  p.128 a poor hut, where I lay unnoticed; nobody suspecting that a man of any importance, could be lodged in so dismal a place. Soon after the Baron de Lezardiere, hunted from town to town, came to join me in this hole, with his three daughters and his younger son, and there we remained eighteen months, almost forgotten. He was still in opulence, when he arrived; but his Castle being burned to the ground, all his lands seized, and most of his friends destroyed by the guillotine, he soon fell into poverty, and I became his only resource. My friends, that were numerous, and some of them still wealthy, seeing me in this situation, came on all sides to my assistance; and with the supplies I received from them, (without my ever asking,) and the little I received from  p.129 you, I have had the happiness to maintain, not indeed in opulence, but still above want, one of the most respectable families in France.

Our solitude indeed was daily bathed with our tears (though otherwise comfortable enough); for there my poor Baron, after the loss of all he possessed in this world, was apprized of the death of his two sons, young men of the greatest merit (a third had been murdered in the prisons of Paris, and the fourth is actually under trial for his life); soon after he received the shocking news of his four sisters being shot, on the same day, as they were flying in the fields to avoid something worse. On my side, it was in the same solitude that I received the fatal news of my poor mother being arrested, and of her soon sinking under  p.130 her grief; that my sister was torn from her, and conducted from prison to prison, partly on my account: in short, that Madame Elizabeth, the glory of religion, and the idol of France, had fallen a victim to the cruel policy of our tyrants, at the moment I expected it the least. I must confess that this last blow went to my very heart, almost as much as the loss of my dear mother; for I was in France merely on her account, and resolved to fly to her assistance any day or hour she called upon me; but she was no more, when I first heard of her being taken from the Temple. Only sixteen hours elapsed between her being brought to judgment and her death; and my only consolation ever since is to think, that, had I been in Paris, I could not have been of any service to her, as nobody  p.131 even suspected on that day, that she was in the fatal cart.

No sooner had I been informed of her death, than I resolved to leave France. It was now a duty to fly, as it had been one to remain as long as she was in existence; for a few days before her imprisonment, she had entrusted me with her last will, (by word of mouth) and requested I would execute it in person, whenever I should hear of her death: it is to execute this duty that I am now in London; and as soon as I close this letter, I set off for Edinburgh.

The Abbé set out immediately on his journey to Edinburgh, to execute the commands of the Princess Elizabeth;  p.132 to communicate to Monsieur, (the present King of France) her last wishes, with which, by word of mouth, as he states, he had been entrusted by the Princess. The Abbé Edgeworth staid about a week at Edinburgh, and then returned to London, in the month of September, 1796. Soon after his return, Mr. Pitt, desiring to see him, he had a long interview with this Minister, at Lord Liverpool's office. When the conference was concluded, Mr. Pitt informed him, that his Majesty intended to settle a pension upon him for life. The Abbé Edgeworth expressed his gratitude for the intended honour. But, the next day, he wrote to Lord Liverpool, and in terms the most polite and grateful, begged to decline accepting the pension that had been so graciously offered  p.133 to him. He could not think of adding, he said, to the expenses which government had already incurred, in providing for such a number of French emigrants.

During three months which the Abbé Edgeworth spent, at this time, in London, he received marks of high respect and of the kindest attention, from persons of the most distinguished character in England; and from all classes, he had proofs of the genuine good and generous feeling of the British public. The polished, yet simple, manners of the Abbé Edgeworth, now attached to his person, those who bad begun by admiring his character. It became the fashion to invite him every-where; and such indeed was the general eagerness to see and hear him, that had he complied  p.134 with this desire, he must have lived in public; and had he felt within him any latent love of celebrity or of popular applause, it would now have appeared, and would have been fully gratified. But he had no love of fame, he withdrew as much as possible from notice, and lived in retirement with a few private friends.

His brother and his other relations in Ireland, were most anxious to see him, and to welcome to their country and to their family, one who had conferred on them so much honour. The Abbé, in compliance with their entreaties, was preparing, and actually on the point of setting out upon his journey to Ireland, when he was stopped, and all his views were altered by the arrival of Mademoiselle de la Lezardiere from France,  p.135 who was charged with dispatches of importance for Louis the Eighteenth. Mademoiselle de la Lezardiere had undertaken to deliver the papers to her brother, who was to carry them to the King of France; his Majesty was at this time at Blanckenberg. It happened that M. de la Lezardiere had left London, and had gone on other business to his Majesty. Mademoiselle de la Lezardiere, therefore, applied to the Abbé Edgeworth, as the only person whom she could venture to entrust with a confidential commission of so much importance. Had the Abbé hesitated, he would have been decided by a message delivered to him, with the following letter from his king.

 p.136

Letter from Louis the Eighteenth to the Abbé Edgeworth.

I have heard, Sir, with extreme satisfaction, that you have at last escaped from all the dangers to which your devoted attachment to my brother has exposed you. I sincerely thank Divine Providence for having preserved in you one of his most faithful ministers, and the trusty friend who received the last thoughts of a brother, whose death I shall ever deplore — whose memory will ever be venerated by Frenchmen; of a martyr, whose triumph you have been the first to proclaim; and whose virtues will, I trust, be, at some future day, consecrated by the church. Your miraculous  p.137 preservation makes me hope, that God has not yet abandoned France. He has, without doubt, ordained, that an unimpeachable witness should attest to all Frenchmen the love with which their King was ever animated for them. So that, knowing the whole extent of their loss, their grief may not be confined to mere lamentations; but that they may throw themselves into the arms of their heavenly Father, and receive from Him the only alleviation of which their sorrow is susceptible. I therefore exhort you, Sir, or rather I entreat, to the most earnest manner, that you will collect and publish all the particulars which you can, consistently with your holy office.

That will be the finest monument  p.138 that I can erect to the best of Kings, and the most beloved of brothers.

I should wish, Sir, to give you solid proofs of my profound esteem; but I can only offer you my admiration and my gratitude. These are the sentiments the most worthy of you.

Louis.

This dignified and eloquent letter, would doubtless have touched a heart less attached to the Bourbons than was that of the Abbé Edgeworth. The King's letter was accompanied by a message, expressing his wish to see the Abbé. To this wish, and to the hope of being essentially useful to his Sovereign  p.139 in distress, all other considerations immediately gave way. He took charge of the dispatches which Mademoiselle de la Lezardiere was so anxious to have safely delivered, and he set out for Blanckenberg. It should here be mentioned to his honour, that he was at this time so poor, that he was obliged to borrow a hundred pounds from a relation, to enable him to undertake this journey. He arrived safely at Blanckenberg, and delivered the papers to the King. The Abbé intended to have stayed but three days, and to have returned to London with the despatches; but Louis the Eighteenth sent his answer to England by M. de la Lezardiere, wishing to keep the Abbé with him at Blanckenberg during Lent and Easter. The Abbé wrote to his friends  p.140 in England, to account for his delaying to return to them. Still his brother and his relations had hopes that they should soon see him, and that he would at last settle in his own country. But when the time fixed for his departure arrived, and when he asked for the King's commands, his Majesty, in the most gracious manner, said to him,—

“Monsieur L'Abbé, I have appointed you my almoner. I do not command you to stay with me; but if you have no other engagement, let me invite, let me prevail upon you to remain with me.”

Resisting all the temptations which the love of home and of domestic friends pressed upon his feelings, he resolved to follow the fallen fortunes, as they then appeared to be, the irrecoverable  p.141 fortunes of his Sovereign and of the House of Bourbon. In a letter, which he wrote at this time to a female friend, he says,—

“The die is cast.—The King wishes me to stay with him, and never to separate from him till death. With his kind wish I have complied (which shews how futile all resolves are). So now our fates are united, for I shall never desert my post: and if I can be of any service to my isolated, ill-starred prince, I shall think myself over paid for the overthrow of my air-built plans, which I once imagined I should see realized.”

The Abbé now made all arrangements for remaining abroad. He wrote to Bousset, his faithful servant, whom he had left in London, and ordered him  p.142 to bring over all his little property, as he had set out without any thing but mere necessaries for a week's stay at Blanckenberg. From this period to the moment of his death, the Abbé devoted himself to the service of the House of Bourbon, and we may add, to the service of humanity; for while he thus fulfilled his duties towards the high in rank and situation, he never lost sight of the humblest and the poorest of his fellow-creatures, to whom he could afford temporal assistance, or religious instruction and consolation.

Soon after the establishment of the Royal Family of France at Mittau, the Emperor Paul wished to confer the order of St. Alexander upon Louis the Eighteenth.

He sent for the Abbé Edgeworth, to  p.143 receive the insignia from his hands, and to convey them to his royal master, who in return presented the order of St. Esprit to the Emperor.

When the Abbé Edgeworth arrived at the court of Russia, Paul was so much struck by his venerable appearance, that he prostrated himself before him, and implored his blessing. He presented the Abbé with his picture, set in diamonds, and settled upon him a pension of five hundred roubles per annum.

The picture the Abbé Edgeworth laid at the feet of his King; the pension he divided with the poor.

In times of revolution, some men of ordinary characters have been known to act with heroism, from the excitement of extraordinary circumstances, or from  p.144 the impulse of sudden feeling; and after astonishing and dazzling the world for a moment, they have sunk back again to their habitual selfishness, and have merged in their original obscurity. But it was not so with the Abbé Edgeworth. He acted from steady principle; his heroism, springing from a strong sense of duty and religion, was uniformly sustained. The man was one and the same, whether the eyes of all Europe were upon him, or whether no human being witnessed his actions; whether he appeared on the scaffold with the King of France, or attended the sick bed of the most obscure individual[...] He was not one of those heroes of history, who are best admired at a distance, and who in a manner cheat posterity into admiration. The Abbé Edgeworth was  p.145 most respected and revered by those who were nearest to him; by those who during the course of his life, had the best and most constant opportunities of discerning the motives of his actions, of marking the consistency of his conduct, and the dignified simplicity of his character. He lived among the great — not their dependant and flatterer in prosperity, but their support and consolation in adversity. One of his royal masters he attended on the scaffold, the other he followed in exile; — the one he sustained by the power of religion in the last moments of a violent death, the other in the more protracted trial of a calamitous life.

At this time, while the Bourbons could be only spectators of a war, which at last, in the most unexpected,  p.146 we might almost say, miraculous manner, restored them to the throne of their ancestors, they had, during a long period of adversity, severe trials of that fortitude and of that Christian patience which dignifies misfortune. At this time they gave examples, not only of Christian patience, but of Christian charity. It was the Abbé Edgeworth's daily happiness and glory to minister to these virtues, and it was his fate to lose his life in fulfilling these duties.

In the spring of the year 1807, the power of the usurper having increased with rapidity, Bonaparte directed the arms of France against the dominions of Russia. During the course of this war, it happened that some French soldiers, who had been taken prisoners, were sent to Mittau. Though they had  p.147 borne arms against the House of Bourbon, yet, in the true spirit of Christian forgiveness, their errors were forgotten by Louis the Eighteenth. The Abbé Edgeworth went, with his Majesty's permission, to attend them, to give them all the comforts which humanity could procure, and all the consolations which religion alone could bestow. A contagious fever raged among these prisoners: of this the venerable Abbé was aware; but he persevered in his visits: he would not abandon those who had no earthly hope but in him. Day and night he continued his attendance, assisted by his faithful servant, Bousset, who emulated the virtues of his master. The Abbé Edgeworth caught the fever! His constitution had been previously weakened by ill health and mental suffering.  p.148 At length, submitting to the force of disease, he was obliged to desist from all further exercise of his charitable and pious functions. On the 17th of May, 1807, he was confined to that bed from which he never afterwards rose. When the daughter of Louis the Sixteenth heard that the Abbé Edgeworth was taken ill, she declared that she would go immediately and see this friend of her family. All her attendants represented to her the danger of infection, and used every argument and entreaty to prevail upon her not to attempt what was so hazardous; but to use the strong expression of a lady who knew the fact, “No one could keep her from the sick room of her beloved and revered invalid.'” “The less he knows of his own wants,” said the Princess,  p.149 “the more he stands in need of a friend; and if every human being were to fly from him in this contagion, I shall never forsake my more than friend; the unalterable disinterested friend of my family, who has left kindred and his country! all! — all for us! Nothing shall withhold my personal attendance from the Abbé Edgeworth. I ask no one to accompany me.”

The Princess actually attended the death-bed of the Abbé Edgeworth, administered medicine to him with her own hands, and received his dying breath. This is here recorded, not to do honour to the Abbé Edgeworth, but to do justice to human nature, and to the gratitude of princes. A virtue, whose existence, perhaps, would not so often have been doubted, if there had  p.150 been more examples of attachment as disinterested, sincere, and steady, as that which, beyond possibility of doubt, was manifested by him, whose life was the best proof at once of his loyalty and his faith.

The Abbé died on the 22d of May, 1807; the fifth day after he had been taken ill.

The court of Louis the Eighteenth, went into mourning for the Abbé Edgeworth. The Duke and Duchess of Angoulème, the Archbishop of Rheims, and all the nobility of the court attended his funeral. His epitaph was written by the King of France; who ordered that a copy of it should be transmitted, with the following letter, to the Abbé's brother. Of this condescension and goodness, strongly as they must be felt  p.151 by all, and peculiarly by every individual of the Abbé Edgeworth's name and family, the Editor forbears to say any thing. The epitaph and the letter speak for themselves, and both in private remembrance and in public history, will, I trust, be very long preserved in honour, equally of the head and heart of the royal and the amiable writer.

 p.152

Page blank

 p.153

D. O. M.
HIC JACET
REVERENDISSIMUS VIR
HENRICVS ESSEX EDGEWORTH DE FIRMONT,
SANCTAE DEI ECCLESIAE SACERDOS,
VICARIUS GENERALIS ECCLESIAE† PARISIENSIS, ETC.
QUI
REDEMPTORIS NOSTRI VESTIGIA TENENS
OCULUS CAECO,
PES CLAUDO,
PATER PAUPERUM,
MOERENTIUM CONSOLATOR
FUIT.
LUDOVICUM XVI.
AB IMPIIS REBELLIBUSQUE SUBDITIS
MORTI DEDITUM
AD ULTIMUM CERTAMEN
ROBORAVIT,
STRENUOQUE MARTYRI COELOS APERTOS
OSTENDIT.
E MANIBUS REGICIDARUM
 p.154 MIRA DEI PROTECTIONE
EREPTUS
LUDOVICO XVIII.
CUM AD SE VOCANTI
ULTRO ACCURRENS,
EI PER DECEM ANNOS,
REGIAE EJUS FAMILIE,
NECNON ET FlDELIBUS SODALIBUS,
EXEMPLAR VIRTUTUM,
LEVAMEN MALORUM
SE SE PRAEBUIT.
PER MULTAS ET VARIAS REGIONES
TEMPORUM CALAMITATE
ACTUS,
ILLI QUEM SOLUM COLEBAT
SEMPER SIMILIS,
PERTRANSIT BENEFACIENDO.
PLENUS TANDEM BONIS OPERIBUS
OBIIT
DIE 22A. MAII MENSIS
ANNO DOMINI 1807,
AETATIS VERO SUAE 62.
Requiescat in pace.

 p.155

A Letter from Louis XVIII. King of France, to Mr. Ussher Edgeworth.

Sir,

The letter which the Archbishop of Rheims wrote to you, has informed you of the melancholy loss we have sustained. You will regret the best and tenderest of brothers. I weep for a friend, a comforter, a benefactor, who guided the King, my brother, on his way to heaven, and pointed out the same path to me. The world did not deserve to possess him any longer. Let us submit to this stroke, in reflecting that he is gone to receive the reward due to his virtues. But as we are not forbidden to receive the condolence offered by beings of an inferior order, I offer you mine, in the midst of the general  p.156 affliction caused by this misfortune. Yes, Sir, the death of your brother has been a public calamity. My family, and all the loyal French by whom I am surrounded, feel as I do, as if we had lost our father; and our affliction is shared by all the inhabitants of Mittau. All classes and all sects united at his funeral, and universal lamentation accompanied him to his last home.

May this recital soften your sorrow! May I thus give to the memory of this most respectable of men a new proof of my veneration and attachment!

Be assured, Sir, of my good wishes for you and for all the family of the Abbé Edgeworth.

Louis.

@book{E815001,
  title 	 = {Memoirs of the Abbé Edgeworth; containing his narrative of the last hours of Louis XVI},
  author 	 = {C. Sneyd Edgeworth},
  edition 	 = {1},
  note 	 = {156 pages},
  publisher 	 = {Printed For Rowland Hunter, Successor to J. Johnson, 72, St. Paul's Church-Yard.},
  address 	 = {London},
  date 	 = {1815}
}
 E815001.bib