After ſo many mutual infidelities, it might be expected that one party would grow indifferent, and the other ſuſpicious; but the French never deſpair: new hordes of patriots prepare to poſſeſs themſelves of the places they are forcing the old ones to abandon, and the people, eager for change, are ready to receive them with the momentary and fallaciouſ enthuſiaſm which ever precedes diſgrace; while thoſe who are thuſ intriguing for power and influence, are, perhaps, ſecretly deviſing how it may be made moſt ſubſervient to their perſonal advantage.
Yet, perhaps, theſe amiable levities may not be diſpleaſing to the Conſtitutional Society and the revolutioniſts of England; and, as the very faults of our friends are often endearing to us, they may extend their indulgence to the "humane" and "liberal" precepts of the Jacobins, and the maſſacres of September.—To confeſs the truth, I am not a little aſhamed for my country when I ſee addreſſes from England to a Convention, the members of which have juſt been accuſing each other of aſſaſſination and robbery, or, in the ardour of a debate, threatening, cuffing, and knocking each other down. Excluſive of their moral character, conſidered only as it appears from their reciprocal criminations, they have ſo little pretenſion to dignity, or even decency, that it ſeems a mockery to addreſs them as the political repreſentatives of a powerful nation deliberating upon important affairs.
If a bearer of one of theſe congratulatory compliments were not apprized of the forms of the Houſe, he would be rather aſtoniſhed, at hiſ introduction, to ſee one member in a menacing attitude, and another denying his veracity in terms perfectly explicit, though not very civil. Perhaps, in two minutes, the partizans of each opponent all riſe and clamour, as if preparing for a combat—the Preſident puts on his hat aſ the ſignal of a ſtorm—the ſubordinate diſputants are appeaſed—and the revilings of the principal ones renewed; till, after torrents of indecent language, the quarrel is terminated by a fraternal embrace.*—I think, after ſuch a ſcene, an addreſſer muſt feel a little humiliated, and would return without finding his pride greatly increaſed by his miſſion.
* I do not make any aſſertions of this nature from conjecture or partial evidence. The journals of the time atteſt that the ſcenes I deſcribe occur almoſt in every debate.—As a proof, I ſubjoin ſome extracts taken nearly at hazard: "January 7th, Convention Nationale, Preſidence de Treilhard.—The debate was opened by an addreſs from the department of Finiſterre, expreſſing their wiſhes, and adding, that theſe were likewiſe the wiſhes of the nation at large—that Marat, Robeſpierre, Bazire, Chabot, Merlin, Danton, and their accomplices, might be expelled the Convention as caballers and intriguers paid by the tyrants at war with France." The account of this debate is thus continued—"The almoſt daily troubles which ariſe in the Convention were on the point of being renewed, when a member, a friend to order, ſpoke as follows, and, it is remarked, was quietly liſtened to: "'Citizens, "'If three months of uninterrupted ſilence has given me any claim to your attention, I now aſk it in the name of our afflicted country. Were I to continue ſilent any longer, I ſhould render myſelf aſ culpable as thoſe who never hold their tongues. I ſee we are all ſenſible of the painfulneſs of our ſituation. Every day diſſatiſfied with ourſelves, we come to the debate with the intention of doing ſomething, and every day we return without having done any thing. The people expect from us wiſe laws, and not ſtormſ and tumults. How are we to make theſe wiſe laws, and keep twenty-five millions of people quiet, when we, who are only ſeven hundred and fifty individuals, give an example of perpetual riot and diſorder? What ſignifies our preaching the unity and indiviſibility of the republic, when we cannot maintain peace and union amongſt ourſelves? What good can we expect to do amidſt ſuch ſcandalouſ diſturbances, and while we ſpend our time in attending to informations, accuſations, and inculpations, for the moſt part utterly unfounded? For my part, I ſee but one means of attaining any thing like dignity and tranquillity, and that is, by ſubmitting ourſelves to coercive regulations.'" Here follow ſome propoſals, tending to eſtabliſh a little decency in their proceedings for the future; but the account from whence thiſ extract is taken proceeds to remark, that this invitation to peace was no ſooner finiſhed, than a new ſcene of diſturbance took place, to the great loſs of their time, and the ſcandal of all good citizens. One ſhould imagine, that if ever the Convention could think it neceſſary to aſſume an appearance of dignity, or at leaſt of ſeriouſneſs and order, it would be in giving their judgement relative to the King. Yet, in determining how a ſeries of queſtionſ ſhould be diſcuſſed, on the arrangement of which his fate ſeems much to have depended, the ſolemnity of the occaſion appears to have had no weight. It was propoſed to begin by that of the appeal to the people. This was ſo violently combated, that the Convention would hear neither party, and were a long time without debating at all. Petion mounted the tribune, and attempted to reſtore order; but the noiſe was too great for him to be heard. He at length, however, obtained ſilence enough to make a motion. Again the murmurſ recommenced. Rabaud de St. Etienne made another attempt, but waſ equally unſucceſſful. Thoſe that were of an oppoſite opinion refuſed to hear him, and both parties roſe up and ruſhed together to the middle of the Hall. The moſt dreadful tumult took place, and the Preſident, with great difficulty, procured a calm. Again the ſtorm began, and a member told them, that if they voted in the affirmative, thoſe on the left ſide (Robeſpierre, &c.) would not wait the reſult, but have the King aſſaſſinated. "Yeſ! Yeſ! (reſounded from all parts) the Scelerats of Paris will murder him!" —Another violent diſorder enſuing, it was thought no decree could be paſſed, and, at length, amidſt this ſcene of riot and confuſion, the order of queſtions was arranged, and in ſuch a manner as to decide the fate of the King.—It was determined, that the queſtion of his guilt ſhould precede that of the appeal to the people. Had the order of the queſtions been changed, the King might have been ſaved, for many would have voted for the appeal in the firſt inſtance who did not dare do it when they found the majority reſolved to pronounce him guilty.
It is very remarkable, that, on the ſame day on which the friends of liberty and equality of Mancheſter ſignalized themſelves by a moſt patriotic compliment to the Convention, beginning with "Francais, vouſ etes libres," ["Frenchmen, you are free.">[ they were, at that very moment, employed in diſcuſſing a petition from numbers of Pariſians who had been thrown into priſon without knowing either their crime or their accuſers, and were ſtill detained under the ſame arbitrary circumſtances.—The law of the conſtitution is, that every perſon arreſted ſhall be interrogated within twenty-four hours; but as theſe impriſonments were the work of the republican Miniſters, the Convention ſeemed to think it indelicate to interpoſe, and theſe citizens of a country whoſe freedom is ſo much envied by the Mancheſter Society, will moſt likely remain in durance as long as their confinement ſhall be convenient to thoſe who have placed them there.—A ſhort time after, Villette, who is a news-writer and deputy, was cited to appear before the municipality of Paris, under the charge of having inſerted in his paper "equivocal phraſes and anti-civic expreſſions, tending to diminiſh the confidence due to the municipality."—Villette, as being a member of the Convention, obtained redreſs; but had he been only a journaliſt, the liberty of the preſs would not have reſcued him.—On the ſame day, complaint was made in the Aſſembly, that one man had been arreſted inſtead of another, and confined for ſome weeks, and it was agreed unanimouſly, (a thing that does not often occur,) that the powerſ exerciſed by the Committee of Inſpection [Surveillance.—See Debates, December.] were incompatible with liberty.
The patriots of Belfaſt were not more fortunate in the adaption of their civilitieſ—they addreſſed the Convention, in a ſtrain of great piety, to congratulate them on the ſucceſs of their arms in the "cauſe of civil and religious liberty."*
* At this time the municipalities were empowered to ſearch all houſes by night or day; but their viſites domiciliaires, as they are called, being made chiefly in the night, a decree has ſince ordained that they ſhall take place only during the day. Perhaps an Engliſhman may think the latter quite ſufficient, conſidering that France is the freeeſt country in the world, and, above all, a republic.
The harangue was interrupted by the mal-a-propoſ entrance of two deputies, who complained of having been beaten, almoſt hanged, and half drowned, by the people of Chartres, for belonging, as they were told, to an aſſembly of atheiſtical perſecutors of religion; and this Convention, whom the Society of Belfaſt admire for propagating "religious liberty" in other countries, were in a few days humbly petitioned, from variouſ departments, not to deſtroy it in their own. I cannot, indeed, ſuppoſe they have really ſuch a deſign; but the contempt with which they treat religion has occaſioned an alarm, and given the French an idea of their piety very different from that ſo kindly conceived by the patriots of Belfaſt.
I entruſt this to our friend Mrs. ____, who is leaving France in a few days; and as we are now on the eve of a war, it will be the laſt letter you will receive, except a few lines occaſionally on our private affairs, or to inform you of my health. As we cannot, in the ſtate Mrs. D____ iſ in, think of returning to England at preſent, we muſt truſt ourſelves to the hoſpitality of the French for at leaſt a few weeks, and I certainly will not abuſe it, by ſending any remarks on their political affairs out of the country. But as I know you intereſt yourſelf much in the ſubject, and read with partiality my attempts to amuſe you, I will continue to throw my obſervations on paper as regularly as I have been accuſtomed to do, and I hope, ere long, to be the bearer of the packets myſelf. I here alſo renew my injunction, that no part of my correſpondence that relateſ to French politics be communicated to any one, not even my mother. What I have written has been merely to gratify your own curioſity, and I ſhould be extremely mortified if my opinions were repeated even in the little circle of our private acquaintance. I deem myſelf perfectly juſtifiable in imparting my reflections to you, but I have a ſort of delicacy that revolts at the thought of being, in the remoteſt degree, acceſſary to conveying intelligence from a country in which I reſide, and which is ſo peculiarly ſituated as France is at this moment. My feelings, my humanity, are averſe from thoſe who govern, but I ſhould regret to be the means of injuring them. You cannot miſtake my intentions, and I conclude by ſeriouſly reminding you of the promiſe I exacted previous to any political diſcuſſion.—Adieu.