The history of the Bastile, and of its principal captives — Edition Insights

The Author's Candid Limitations

In his Advertisement, Davenport compares his finished work to an oriental fruit-hawker's cry: 'In the name of the Prophet—figs!' He began loftily but ended, he fears, with something far less grand. This self-deprecating metaphor sets a tone of scholarly honesty. He acknowledges that the publisher enlarged the page and added pages at considerable cost to reduce the work's imperfections, yet he still felt 'exceedingly cramped by the want of adequate space.' Despite these constraints, Davenport insists he consulted every accessible document and tried to be 'strictly just, and to combine information with amusement.' His hope is that the volume will keep alive an abhorrence of arbitrary power and inspire affection for governments that promote the people's happiness. This opening frames the book as a conscientious, if imperfect, compilation.

The Bastille's Physical and Institutional Fabric

The table of contents reveals a systematic approach: the first chapter covers the original meaning of 'Bastile,' descriptions of various bastiles, then a detailed look at 'The Bastile' itself—its officers, interior, garden, exercise court, towers, dungeons, apartments, furniture, and food. Also included are the library, chapel, and an explanation of lettres de cachet. This granular inventory suggests Davenport wanted readers to understand the fortress not just as a symbol but as a functioning prison. The chapter headings promise a shift from physical description to the system of arbitrary imprisonment, then to narratives of principal captives. The book's structure thus moves from place to institution to individual stories, giving readers a layered understanding of how the Bastille operated.

Fouquet's Fall: A Case Study in Royal Dissimulation

One of the most detailed excerpts concerns Nicolas Fouquet, Louis XIV's superintendent of finances. Davenport recounts how Mazarin, on his deathbed, awakened Louis's suspicions against Fouquet, leaving behind two deadly foes: Le Tellier and Colbert. The king, determined to be his own prime minister, secretly examined financial statements with Colbert's help, unravelling Fouquet's 'artful tangles.' Louis believed Fouquet aspired to sovereignty—a fear Davenport calls 'absurd,' noting the only evidence was Fouquet's purchase and fortification of Belleisle for commercial purposes. A further motive, Davenport suggests, was Fouquet's imprudent attempt to include La Vallière among his mistresses. The king and Colbert used 'profound dissimulation,' even hinting at the premiership, to lull Fouquet while stripping him of his legal privilege of trial by the assembled chambers. This episode illustrates Davenport's method: he presents multiple causes—financial, political, and personal—without reducing the story to a single motive.

Reading Between the Lines of an 1838 History

Davenport's work is a product of its time, and readers should attend to his rhetorical choices. He quotes Madame de Motteville's remark that few at court 'did not sacrifice to the golden calf,' and a sarcastic writer's note that nobles invited to Vaux 'did not forget to take away' the gold left in their rooms. These asides reveal Davenport's moral stance: he condemns the corruption of the court while acknowledging that policy, lust, and vanity all played a part. He also distinguishes between the nobles who deserted Fouquet in danger and the 'people of talent' who clung to him. This binary—corrupt nobility versus loyal men of talent—reflects early nineteenth-century liberal values. Readers should consider how Davenport's own context shapes his portrayal of absolutism and arbitrary power.

Davenport's history is best approached as a purposeful compilation rather than a seamless narrative. The excerpts show him weaving together physical description, institutional analysis, and dramatic biography, all while acknowledging the work's limitations. Readers may find it useful to track how he balances his stated goals—to inform and to inspire abhorrence of tyranny—with the constraints of his sources and space. The book rewards attention to its structure and to the author's candid asides about his own process.

Reading about the Bastille’s cold stone and its quiet, forgotten officers, I found myself thinking of how daily habits outlast walls. There’s a gentle ache in tracing those names no history book remembers fully. That same feeling—of lives tucked into routine—lingers in The Customs of Old England — Edition Insights, like a familiar scent from a doorway you once passed. It stayed with me, softly.