Abridging the French Revolution of Carlyle

After diving through old draft posts again, I have found this, which is slightly revised. I hope it isn't boring, but since no other blog posts seem to be forthcoming . . . perhaps a little laxity in the pursuit of thrills is permissible.

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To leaf through to a fresher chapter in my historical research I've decided to read Thomas Carlyle's French Revolution in its entirety. The thing is that, whether it's rational or not, I rarely read more than a page or two of Carlyle at a time because his style of language and of historiography inspire irresistible antipathy.

So, to inspire me to keep on reading, and (ideally) to depict the pre-Revolutionary France and its actors in a fairer and kinder manner, I've tried rewriting the first chapter.

The result hopefully still emphasizes Carlyle's virtues, whilst keeping away the wildest fantasies, softening his prejudices, and simplifying his sentence structures.

Here is a paragraph from the Project Gutenberg text.

These, and what holds of these may pray,—to Beelzebub, or whoever will hear them. But from the rest of France there comes, as was said, no prayer; or one of an opposite character, 'expressed openly in the streets.' Chateau or Hotel, were an enlightened Philosophism scrutinises many things, is not given to prayer: neither are Rossbach victories, Terray Finances, nor, say only 'sixty thousand Lettres de Cachet' (which is Maupeou's share), persuasives towards that. O Henault! Prayers? From a France smitten (by black-art) with plague after plague, and lying now in shame and pain, with a Harlot's foot on its neck, what prayer can come? Those lank scarecrows, that prowl hunger-stricken through all highways and byways of French Existence, will they pray? The dull millions that, in the workshop or furrowfield, grind fore-done at the wheel of Labour, like haltered gin-horses, if blind so much the quieter? Or they that in the Bicetre Hospital, 'eight to a bed,' lie waiting their manumission? Dim are those heads of theirs, dull stagnant those hearts: to them the great Sovereign is known mainly as the great Regrater of Bread. If they hear of his sickness, they will answer with a dull Tant pis pour lui; or with the question, Will he die?

I don't like, for instance, insulting an 'underclass' — even from a sympathetic standpoint — by painting them as an indistinguishable horde of incurious lackwits.

This is the paragraph after I changed it:

"These and their supporters may well pray out of self-interest. But from the rest of France there comes, as has been said, little or no prayer — at least not favourable prayer. The Château or Hotel, given its practice of what one might term enlightened Philosophism, is not given to orisons; nor are the policies of the king’s circle, among them the 'sixty thousand Lettres de Cachet' which fall to Maupeou's share, likely to persuade one to make an exception. To return to Hénault’s words it is indeed questionable from where these pleas should emanate. France is smitten with plague after plague, its rulers suspected of sorcery and ignoble subjection to the will of a courtesan. Why should the starving men who roam through the highways and byways, the millions who labour in the workshop or furrowfield, or those who lie 'eight to a bed' in the Bicêtre Hospital pray? Their minds and feelings are occupied by other matters."

Whether this revision is fine or not, it still dilutes my ire whilst I am reading The French Revolution.

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Addendum: I haven't read anything of Carlyle's in years — since 2010 when I wrote this, possibly; so it can't have improved my patience too much.