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.

Amiens, February 15, 1793.

I did not, as I promised, write immediately on my return from Chantilly; the person by whom I intended to send my letter having already set out for England, and the rule I have observed for the last three months of entrusting nothing to the post but what relates to our family affairs, is now more than ever necessary.  I have before requested, and I must now insist, that you make no allusion to any political matter whatever, nor even mention the name of any political person.  Do not imagine that you are qualified to judge of what is prudent, or what may be written with safety—­I repeat, no one in England can form an idea of the suspicion that pervades every part of the French government.

I cannot venture to answer decisively your question respecting the King—­ indeed the subject is so painful to me, that I have hitherto avoided reverting to it.  There certainly was, as you observe, some sudden alteration in the dispositions of the Assembly between the end of the trial and the final judgement.  The causes were most probably various, and must be sought for in the worst vices of our nature—­cruelty, avarice, and cowardice.  Many, I doubt not, were guided only by the natural malignity of their hearts; many acted from fear, and expected to purchase impunity for former compliances with the court by this popular expiation; a large number are also supposed to have been paid by the Duke of Orleans—­whether for the gratification of malice or ambition, time must develope.—­But, whatever were the motives, the result was an iniquitous combination of the worst of a set of men, before selected from all that was bad in the nation, to profane the name of justice—­to sacrifice an unfortunate, but not a guilty Prince—­and to fix an indelible stain on the country.

Among those who gave their opinion at large, you will observe Paine:  and, as I intimated in a former letter, it seems he was at that time rather allured by the vanity of making a speech that should be applauded, than by any real desire of injuring the King.  Such vanity, however, is not pardonable:  a man has a right to ruin himself, or to make himself ridiculous; but when his vanity becomes baneful to others, as it has all the effect, so does it merit the punishment, of vice.