CORRESPONDENCE OF

CHARLES JAMES FOX.

BOOK THE SIXTH.

We have now arrived at a period of the history of this country and of Europe, of the highest interest. The French Revolution, in its origin, in its career, in the wars which attended its course, and in the consequences which it produced, forms the most important epoch in modern history. It is far from my intention to attempt in this place even a slight outline of that great change in the state of Europe; but with respect to its effects on the policy of England, on the Whig party, and on the personal position of Mr. Fox, the nature of the present work renders it incumbent upon me to make some remarks.

At the beginning of December, 1790, Louis XVI., alarmed at the progress of the democratic factions in France, wrote a letter addressed to the Emperor of Germany, the Empress of Russia, the Kings of Prussia, Spain, and Sweden, suggesting a congress of the principal sovereigns of Europe, supported by

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an armed force, as the best means of establishing a better order in France, and preventing the contagion of dangerous principles.*

There can be no doubt that this appeal to foreign states, against his own subjects, was a step at variance with the duty of a constitutional sovereign to the laws and to the people. It placed him in the light of a conspirator against his own country.

In May, 1791, the Emperor of Germany concerted measures to meet the alleged danger. He proposed that 35,000 Germans should march into Flanders, 15,000 into Alsace, that 15,000 Swiss should move towards Lyons, 15,000 Piedmontese towards Dauphiny, that 20,000 Spaniards should be placed on the frontier; he promised the co-operation of Prussia, and that England would remain neutral. The French Parliaments were to be recalled into life in order to give legality to the future Constitution.

It is obvious that nothing could.be more futile than such a plan. To imagine that 100,000 men, dotted over five points of frontier, could overcome the strong will of a nation like France, was a mistake so preposterous that it was evident the Emperor of Germany neither knew the force with which he had to deal nor his own strength.

In August, 1791, the Emperor and King of Prussia met at Pilnitz, for the purpose, it was supposed, of making arrangements with respect to Poland. The Count d'Artois, however, presented himself at Dresden, and urged the two sovereigns to

Memo es tirés des Papiers d'un Homme d'État," vol. i., p. 96.

interfere actively in the affairs of France. The Emperor was averse to such interference, but the King of Prussia was eager for war. The result of their concert was a declaration that the two sovereigns were desirous to co-operate in efficacious measures to enable the King of France to consolidate in perfect liberty a monarchical government suited to the rights of sovereigns and the welfare of the French people. The monarchs of Europe were invited to act with mutual concord and the necessary forces in order to attain this end. Accordingly, Russia, Spain, and the petty princes of Italy, expressed their entire accordance; England alone, while not averse to the objects of this levy of sovereigns, declared for a policy of neutrality.

Nothing could be worse in principle than the declaration of Pilnitz. It laid down as a practical doctrine that the despotic sovereigns of Europe were to fix the bounds and prescribe the measure of the liberties of the people of France. While such was the unjustifiable nature of the principle, the means adopted were mischievous and dangerous in the extreme. Encouragement was given to the French princes and emigrant nobles who assembled at the head of more than 20,000 men on the frontiers of France with a view of promoting insurrection and beckoning on the great powers to the invasion, perhaps the partition of France.

Very little reflection might have sufficed to convince the statesmen of England that such a declaration ought not to be viewed with indifference. One of

two consequences must follow: either the armies of Germany, of Russia, of Italy and of Spain would succeed in their invasion, or France, roused to resistance by so insolent an attempt, would drive back the aggressors, with shame, to their own frontiers. In the former case, the independence of France would have been destroyed, and there could be little doubt that the monarchs who had just risen from their shameless feast upon the spoils of Poland, would have sought, with similar rapacity and with equal disregard of right and justice, a gratification of their selfish cupidity in the rich provinces of France. Indeed cotemporary testimony leaves no room to doubt that the hatred of liberty which the sovereigns of the North avowed, was not stronger than the love of plunder, which they concealed. Such a termination of the projects of the allics, looked upon as an example, was odious and pernicious. As a disturbance of the balance of power in Europe it must have been the prelude to new convulsions and protracted wars. But in the event of the discomfiture of the allies by the French, other consequences not less important were sure to follow. The French, in the very heat and fervour of a democratic revolution, which was to establish new maxims of government, new rules of foreign policy, to abolish old privileges, old restrictions, and old conventions, were not likely to be satisfied with the mere repulse of an invasion. The attempt to confine the action of the French people within the circle drawn by rulers of foreign states, was sure to cause a terrible rebound. The

weapons by which their assailants might be punished were ready to the hands of the impassioned and reckless men who swayed the destinies of France. The subversive theories and democratic aspirations, which had shaken the monarchy and uprooted the nobility of France, were fermenting in the bosoms of many of the subjects of the assembled and affrighted sovereigns of Europe. It could not but happen that if the military nation who were called to arms in the name of French independence should obtain the victory over their enemies, they would extend the limits of the ancient monarchy and scatter to the winds the treaties by which Europe was bound together.

Yet this was the struggle the approach of which was looked upon by the ministers of England with some complacency towards the invaders, but not the slightest apprehension of the invaded. It was in vain that Machiavel had told them that the attempt to oppress a nation amid the throes and heavings of internal disorders was sure to end in failure. It was in vain that the spectacle was exhibited before them of a mighty people frenzied to the utmost pitch of enthusiasm, and of embattled armies prepared to quench that enthusiasm in blood. In their little wisdom they presumed that it was possible and even easy to allow the conflict to take place, and yet to preserve undisturbed all the parchment treaties and formal precedents by which the state of Europe was regulated.

Events followed each other rapidly. On the 25th of July, 1792, the Duke of Brunswick, then at the head