A Revolutionary Nation Mourns a Global Icon

In April 1790, the French National Assembly received news that struck a chord far beyond national borders: the death of Benjamin Franklin. The American polymath, diplomat, and revolutionary symbol had long been revered in France for his contributions to science, statecraft, and the cause of liberty. Upon learning of his passing, the Assembly declared three days of mourning, a gesture that underscored the profound transnational respect Franklin commanded. Across France, a palpable sense of grief took hold. Ordinary citizens and political figures alike donned mourning attire, as did Augustin and Charlotte Robespierre, who wrote to their brother Maximilien in Paris from their home in Arras to share that they, too, had clothed themselves in black as a mark of respect. This collective mourning was not merely a tribute to a foreign statesman; it reflected the revolutionary belief in shared human progress and the interconnectedness of liberty’s advocates across the Atlantic.

Franklin’s death arrived at a pivotal moment. France was in the throes of reinventing itself, having overthrown the absolutist monarchy and embarked on a radical experiment in popular sovereignty. The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, adopted in August 1789, had articulated a vision of universal rights—liberty, property, security, and resistance to oppression—that transcended national boundaries. Franklin, who had helped draft the American Declaration of Independence and secured French support during the American Revolutionary War, embodied the spirit of this new age. His passing offered revolutionaries an opportunity to reflect on the international dimensions of their struggle and to reaffirm their commitment to ideals that belonged, in their view, to all humanity.

The Return of an Exiled Hero: Pascal Paoli and Corsican Integration

That same month, the Revolution’s universalist aspirations took a more concrete form with the return of Pascal Paoli to Corsica. A towering figure in the island’s history, Paoli had led Corsica in establishing a constitutional republic with elected representatives from 1755 until 1768, when French forces under Louis XV conquered the island. For over two decades, Paoli had lived in exile in Britain, becoming a symbol of resistance and self-governance for enlightenment thinkers and radicals across Europe. The National Assembly, seeking to align itself with such symbols of liberty, had already decreed in November 1789 that Corsica was part of the new France. In April 1790, it extended a general amnesty to exiles, paving the way for Paoli’s return.

His homecoming was celebrated not only as an act of national integration but as evidence of the Revolution’s capacity for reconciliation and its respect for regional autonomy. Paoli represented a living link between the Corsican experiment in republicanism and the broader revolutionary project in France. His presence lent credibility to the claim that the new regime was built on principles of freedom and justice, not mere territorial expansion. For many observers, it signaled that the Revolution could absorb and honor diverse traditions of self-rule while advancing a unified vision of citizenship.

The Festival of Federation: A Gathering of the World’s Peoples

The zenith of revolutionary universalism and patriotism was reached on July 14, 1790, with the Festival of the Federation, commemorating the first anniversary of the storming of the Bastille. Preparations for the event revealed the extent to which the Revolution had captured international imagination. On June 19, a delegation of thirty-six foreigners, led by the Prussian nobleman Jean-Baptiste du Val de Grâce, Baron de Cloots, arrived at the National Assembly. The official record noted the presence of “Arabs, Chaldeans, Prussians, Poles, English, Swiss, Germans, Dutch, Swedes, Italians, Spaniards, Americans, Syrians, Indians, Brabanters, Liégeois, Avignonese, Genevans, and others.” This diverse group formally requested permission to participate in the upcoming festival.

Their petition ignited debate. Conservative and royalist voices criticized the involvement of foreigners, arguing that a national celebration should remain exactly that—national. But the majority in the Assembly welcomed the delegation, with some deputies even apologizing for France’s past aggression toward its neighbors. In a symbolic move that underscored the break with the old order, the Assembly launched into a heated discussion about abolishing aristocratic titles. By the end of the session, marks of noble distinction—marquis, count, baron, knight—along with the culture of privilege and “aristocratic honor” they represented, were formally abolished.

The foreigners’ request was approved. On July 14, Cloots—now an ardent Jacobin—marched as part of a contingent of one thousand foreign guests. The atmosphere was electric. Helen Maria Williams, a thirty-one-year-old English writer present at the event, captured the mood in her writings: “It was the triumph of humanity… it was the noblest right of human nature, that in such a moment, to feel as a citizen of the world was enough.” Cloots, hailed as “the orator of the human race,” was soon nicknamed “Anacharsis,” after the protagonist of a popular 1788 novel who traveled through Greece as a descendant of the Scythian philosopher Anacharsis from the sixth century BCE. The festival thus became not just a national ceremony, but a global spectacle—a performance of fraternity that embraced all peoples.

Commemorating the Revolution: Art, Archives, and Institutional Memory

Even as they celebrated, revolutionaries were keenly aware of the need to preserve and institutionalize the gains they had made. Leading Jacobins in the National Assembly took proactive steps to ensure that the memory of the Revolution would endure through art and official records. In September 1790, the painter Jacques-Louis David, a prominent member of the Paris Jacobin Club, was commissioned to create a monumental work depicting the Tennis Court Oath of June 20, 1789, when representatives of the Third Estate vowed not to disperse until France had a constitution. The commission, valued at 72,000 livres, resulted in a canvas measuring approximately 7 meters by 10 meters—a physical embodiment of the scale and ambition of the revolutionary moment.

Simultaneously, the National Assembly recognized that the sweeping changes in governance and administration since 1789 required systematic documentation. On September 12, 1790, it established the National Archives to “preserve all the constitutions of the kingdom, public regulations, laws, and decrees sent to the departments.” Armand Gaston Camus, a renowned deputy of the Third Estate and one of the earliest presidents of the National Assembly, was appointed as the first archivist. Camus, who had spoken in the Assembly more than six hundred times during its first two years—a reflection of his expertise in canon law—was entrusted with safeguarding the nation’s documentary heritage. The following month, in October 1790, the Assembly formed a Committee on Monuments to protect artworks seized from nationalized properties, ensuring that cultural treasures would be preserved for the public good.

Reactions Across Europe: Hope, Idealism, and Contradictions

News of events in France reverberated across Europe, eliciting reactions that ranged from optimistic enthusiasm to cautious admiration—and, in some cases, opportunistic realpolitik. Before the Revolution, asylum in France had been granted solely through the “grace of the king.” Now, the Declaration of the Rights of Man transformed the right of refuge into a universal entitlement, a shift that resonated deeply with political exiles and reformers abroad. In Paris, thousands of refugees from the Austrian Netherlands , the Dutch Republic, and the Prince-Bishopric of Liège eagerly absorbed revolutionary ideas and planned to carry them back to their homelands.

Intellectuals and elites elsewhere expressed awe at the transformations underway. The Swedish poet Johan Henrik Kellgren wrote to his brother: “Tell me, has history ever seen anything more sublime, even in Rome or Greece? I wept like a child upon hearing of such a great victory for humanity.” In Russia, Count Alexander Stroganov reflected: “If I were to see Russia reborn through such a revolution, it would be the finest day of my life.” Even Austria’s Emperor Leopold II, brother of Marie Antoinette, offered measured praise: “Boundless happiness will radiate from here, putting an end to injustice, war, conflict, and turmoil. This will be the most beneficial fashion France has ever introduced to Europe.” Yet these words did not prevent him from ordering an invasion of the fledgling United Belgian States later that year, capitalizing on its internal divisions to reassert Austrian control.

Public celebrations of the Revolution sprouted in cities across the continent. In Hamburg, a wealthy merchant organized a gathering of “tricolor enthusiasts” to mark the anniversary of the Bastille’s fall. The poet Friedrich Klopstock recited verses that captured the mixed emotions of many admirers abroad:

“Had I a hundred voices, still it would not suffice
To sing the freedom of the Gauls…
Alas, my fatherland, if only it were you
Who reached freedom’s summit,
Who offered liberty to all—
That radiant example! But it is France.”

In Switzerland, the revolutionary fervor ignited vigorous debates in francophone urban centers like Geneva, Fribourg, and Basel, though rural areas remained largely indifferent. One notable exception was Lower Valais, a French-speaking region in the Rhône Valley, where discontent with the rule of the Bishop of Sion and the dominance of German-speaking Upper Valais fueled sympathy for the French cause. Grudges over taxation and political marginalization made Lower Valais fertile ground for revolutionary ideas.

The Legacy of 1790: Universalism in a World of Nations

The events of 1790 represent a high-water mark in the Revolution’s outward-looking phase, a moment when its leaders and supporters genuinely believed that the principles of liberty, equality, and fraternity could transcend national borders. The gestures of that year—mourning Franklin, welcoming Paoli, hosting foreign delegations, abolishing titles, and establishing institutions to safeguard revolutionary memory—were all imbued with a universalist spirit. They reflected a conviction that France was not merely reshaping its own destiny but pioneering a new model for humanity.

Yet this idealism was soon tempered by practical challenges and geopolitical realities. The invasion of Belgium by Austrian forces, the eventual outbreak of war with much of Europe, and the radicalization of the Revolution into the Terror demonstrated the limits of revolutionary universalism when confronted with entrenched interests and international conflict. The same fervor that welcomed foreigners in July 1790 would, within a few years, fuel suspicions of foreign agents and “cosmopolitan plots.”

Nevertheless, the legacy of this brief, optimistic period endures. The National Archives, founded in 1790, remains a pillar of French historical memory. David’s Tennis Court Oath, though unfinished, became an iconic representation of popular sovereignty. Most importantly, the universalist rhetoric of 1790 helped establish a template for future movements—from the revolutions of 1848 to the drafting of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in 1948—that have sought to articulate rights and freedoms as belonging not to one nation, but to all people.

In the end, the revolutionary year of 1790 stands as a powerful reminder that the pursuit of liberty is often at its most vibrant when it looks beyond itself, embracing the world even as it seeks to change it.