The day that, by their consent, the seat of
Regicide has its place among the thrones of Europe, there is no longer a
motive for zeal in their favor; it will at best be cold, unimpassioned,
dejected, melancholy duty. The glory will seem all on the other side.
The friends of the crown will appear, not as champions, but as victims;
discountenanced, mortified, lowered, defeated, they will fall into
listlessness and indifference. They will leave things to take their
course, enjoy the present hour, and submit to the common fate.
Is it only an oppressive nightmare with which we have been loaded? Is
it, then, all a frightful dream, and are there no regicides in the
world? Have we not heard of that prodigy of a ruffian who would not
suffer his benignant sovereign, with his hands tied behind him, and
stripped for execution, to say one parting word to his deluded
people,--of Santerre, who commanded the drums and trumpets to strike up
to stifle his voice, and dragged him backward to the machine of murder!
This nefarious villain (for a few days I may call him so) stands high in
France, as in a republic of robbers and murderers he ought. What
hinders this monster from being sent as ambassador to convey to his
Majesty the first compliments of his brethren, the Regicide Directory?
They have none that can represent them more properly.
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