cover




THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

 A HISTORY

by THOMAS CARLYLE




Contents

  THE FRENCH REVOLUTION A HISTORY
VOLUME I.        THE BASTILLE
BOOK 1.I.        DEATH OF LOUIS XV.
Chapter 1.1.I.   Louis the Well-Beloved.
Chapter 1.1.II.  Realised Ideals.
Chapter 1.1.III. Viaticum.
Chapter 1.1.IV.  Louis the Unforgotten.

BOOK 1.II.       THE PAPER AGE
Chapter 1.2.I.   Astræa Redux.
Chapter 1.2.II.  Petition in Hieroglyphs.
Chapter 1.2.III. Questionable.
Chapter 1.2.IV.  Maurepas.
Chapter 1.2.V.   Astræa Redux without Cash.
Chapter 1.2.VI.  Windbags.
Chapter 1.2.VII. Contrat Social.
Chapter 1.2.VIII. Printed Paper.

BOOK 1.III.      THE PARLEMENT OF PARIS
Chapter 1.3.I.   Dishonoured Bills.
Chapter 1.3.II.  Controller Calonne.
Chapter 1.3.III. The Notables.
Chapter 1.3.IV.  Loménie’s Edicts.
Chapter 1.3.V.   Loménie’s Thunderbolts.
Chapter 1.3.VI.  Loménie’s Plots.
Chapter 1.3.VII. Internecine.
Chapter 1.3.VIII. Loménie’s Death-throes.
Chapter 1.3.IX.  Burial with Bonfire.

BOOK 1.IV.       STATES-GENERAL
Chapter 1.4.I.   The Notables Again.
Chapter 1.4.II.  The Election.
Chapter 1.4.III. Grown Electric.
Chapter 1.4.IV.  The Procession.

BOOK 1.V.        THE THIRD ESTATE
Chapter 1.5.I.   Inertia.
Chapter 1.5.II.  Mercury de Brézé.
Chapter 1.5.III. Broglie the War-God.
Chapter 1.5.IV.  To Arms!
Chapter 1.5.V.   Give us Arms.
Chapter 1.5.VI.  Storm and Victory.
Chapter 1.5.VII. Not a Revolt.
Chapter 1.5.VIII. Conquering your King.
Chapter 1.5.IX.  The Lanterne.

BOOK VI.         CONSOLIDATION
Chapter 1.6.I.   Make the Constitution.
Chapter 1.6.II.  The Constituent Assembly.
Chapter 1.6.III. The General Overturn.
Chapter 1.6.IV.  In Queue.
Chapter 1.6.V.   The Fourth Estate.

BOOK VII.        THE INSURRECTION OF WOMEN
Chapter 1.7.I.   Patrollotism.
Chapter 1.7.II.  O Richard, O my King.
Chapter 1.7.III. Black Cockades.
Chapter 1.7.IV.  The Menads.
Chapter 1.7.V.   Usher Maillard.
Chapter 1.7.VI.  To Versailles.
Chapter 1.7.VII. At Versailles.
Chapter 1.7.VIII. The Equal Diet.
Chapter 1.7.IX.  Lafayette.
Chapter 1.7.X.   The Grand Entries.
Chapter 1.7.XI.  From Versailles.

VOLUME II.       THE CONSTITUTION
BOOK 2.I.        THE FEAST OF PIKES
Chapter 2.1.I.   In the Tuileries.
Chapter 2.1.II.  In the Salle de Manége.
Chapter 2.1.III. The Muster.
Chapter 2.1.IV.  Journalism.
Chapter 2.1.V.   Clubbism.
Chapter 2.1.VI.  Je le jure.
Chapter 2.1.VII. Prodigies.
Chapter 2.1.VIII. Solemn League and Covenant.
Chapter 2.1.IX.  Symbolic.
Chapter 2.1.X.   Mankind.
Chapter 2.1.XI.  As in the Age of Gold.
Chapter 2.1.XII. Sound and Smoke.

BOOK 2.II.       NANCI
Chapter 2.2.I.   Bouillé.
Chapter 2.2.II.  Arrears and Aristocrats.
Chapter 2.2.III. Bouillé at Metz.
Chapter 2.2.IV.  Arrears at Nanci.
Chapter 2.2.V.   Inspector Malseigne.
Chapter 2.2.VI.  Bouillé at Nanci.

BOOK 2.III.      THE TUILERIES
Chapter 2.3.I.   Epimenides.
Chapter 2.3.II.  The Wakeful.
Chapter 2.3.III. Sword in Hand.
Chapter 2.3.IV.  To fly or not to fly.
Chapter 2.3.V.   The Day of Poniards.
Chapter 2.3.VI.  Mirabeau.
Chapter 2.3.VII. Death of Mirabeau.

BOOK 2.IV.       VARENNES
Chapter 2.4.I.   Easter at Saint-Cloud.
Chapter 2.4.II.  Easter at Paris.
Chapter 2.4.III. Count Fersen.
Chapter 2.4.IV.  Attitude.
Chapter 2.4.V.   The New Berline.
Chapter 2.4.VI.  Old-Dragoon Drouet.
Chapter 2.4.VII. The Night of Spurs.
Chapter 2.4.VIII. The Return.
Chapter 2.4.IX.  Sharp Shot.

BOOK 2.V.        PARLIAMENT FIRST
Chapter 2.5.I.   Grande Acceptation.
Chapter 2.5.II.  The Book of the Law.
Chapter 2.5.III. Avignon.
Chapter 2.5.IV.  No Sugar.
Chapter 2.5.V.   Kings and Emigrants.
Chapter 2.5.VI.  Brigands and Jalès.
Chapter 2.5.VII. Constitution will not march.
Chapter 2.5.VIII. The Jacobins.
Chapter 2.5.IX.  Minister Roland.
Chapter 2.5.X.   Pétion-National-Pique.
Chapter 2.5.XI.  The Hereditary Representative.
Chapter 2.5.XII. Procession of the Black Breeches.

BOOK 2.VI.       THE MARSEILLESE
Chapter 2.6.I.   Executive that does not act.
Chapter 2.6.II.  Let us march.
Chapter 2.6.III. Some Consolation to Mankind.
Chapter 2.6.IV.  Subterranean.
Chapter 2.6.V.   At Dinner.
Chapter 2.6.VI.  The Steeples at Midnight.
Chapter 2.6.VII. The Swiss.
Chapter 2.6.VIII. Constitution burst in Pieces.

VOLUME III.      THE GUILLOTINE
BOOK 3.I.        SEPTEMBER
Chapter 3.1.I.   The Improvised Commune.
Chapter 3.1.II.  Danton.
Chapter 3.1.III. Dumouriez.
Chapter 3.1.IV.  September in Paris.
Chapter 3.1.V.   A Trilogy.
Chapter 3.1.VI.  The Circular.
Chapter 3.1.VII. September in Argonne.
Chapter 3.1.VIII. Exeunt.

BOOK 3.II.       REGICIDE
Chapter 3.2.I.   The Deliberative.
Chapter 3.2.II.  The Executive.
Chapter 3.2.III. Discrowned.
Chapter 3.2.IV.  The Loser Pays.
Chapter 3.2.V.   Stretching of Formulas.
Chapter 3.2.VI.  At the Bar.
Chapter 3.2.VII. The Three Votings.
Chapter 3.2.VIII. Place de la Révolution.

BOOK 3.III.      THE GIRONDINS
Chapter 3.3.I.   Cause and Effect.
Chapter 3.3.II.  Culottic and Sansculottic.
Chapter 3.3.III. Growing Shrill.
Chapter 3.3.IV.  Fatherland in Danger.
Chapter 3.3.V.   Sansculottism Accoutred.
Chapter 3.3.VI.  The Traitor.
Chapter 3.3.VII. In Fight.
Chapter 3.3.VIII. In Death-Grips.
Chapter 3.3.IX.  Extinct.

BOOK 3.IV.       TERROR
Chapter 3.4.I.   Charlotte Corday.
Chapter 3.4.II.  In Civil War.
Chapter 3.4.III. Retreat of the Eleven.
Chapter 3.4.IV.  O Nature.
Chapter 3.4.V.   Sword of Sharpness.
Chapter 3.4.VI.  Risen against Tyrants.
Chapter 3.4.VII. Marie-Antoinette.
Chapter 3.4.VIII. The Twenty-two.

BOOK 3.V.        TERROR THE ORDER OF THE DAY
Chapter 3.5.I.   Rushing down.
Chapter 3.5.II.  Death.
Chapter 3.5.III. Destruction.
Chapter 3.5.IV.  Carmagnole complete.
Chapter 3.5.V.   Like a Thunder-Cloud.
Chapter 3.5.VI.  Do thy Duty.
Chapter 3.5.VII. Flame-Picture.

BOOK 3.VI.       THERMIDOR
Chapter 3.6.I.   The Gods are athirst.
Chapter 3.6.II.  Danton, No Weakness.
Chapter 3.6.III. The Tumbrils.
Chapter 3.6.IV.  Mumbo-Jumbo.
Chapter 3.6.V.   The Prisons.
Chapter 3.6.VI.  To Finish the Terror.
Chapter 3.6.VII. Go Down to.

BOOK 3.VII.      VENDÉMIAIRE
Chapter 3.7.I.   Decadent.
Chapter 3.7.II.  La Cabarus.
Chapter 3.7.III. Quiberon.
Chapter 3.7.IV.  Lion not Dead.
Chapter 3.7.V.   Lion Sprawling its Last.
Chapter 3.7.VI.  Grilled Herrings.
Chapter 3.7.VII. The Whiff of Grapeshot.
Chapter 3.7.VIII. Finis.

 INDEX.
 FOOTNOTES.




THE FRENCH REVOLUTION A HISTORY
by
THOMAS CARLYLE


      VOLUME I.—THE BASTILLE

Diesem Ambos vergleich’ ich das Land, den Hammer dem Herscher;
    Und dem Volke das Blech, das in der Mitte sich krümmt.
Wehe dem armen Blech, wenn nur willkürliche Schläge
    Ungewiss treffen, und nie fertig der Kessel erscheint!

 GOETHE


      BOOK 1.I.
      DEATH OF LOUIS XV.


      Chapter 1.1.I.
      Louis the Well-Beloved.

      President Hénault, remarking on royal Surnames of Honour how
      difficult it often is to ascertain not only why, but even when,
      they were conferred, takes occasion in his sleek official way, to
      make a philosophical reflection. “The Surname of _Bien-aimé_
      (Well-beloved),” says he, “which Louis XV. bears, will not leave
      posterity in the same doubt. This Prince, in the year 1744, while
      hastening from one end of his kingdom to the other, and
      suspending his conquests in Flanders that he might fly to the
      assistance of Alsace, was arrested at Metz by a malady which
      threatened to cut short his days. At the news of this, Paris, all
      in terror, seemed a city taken by storm: the churches resounded
      with supplications and groans; the prayers of priests and people
      were every moment interrupted by their sobs: and it was from an
      interest so dear and tender that this Surname of _Bien-aimé_
      fashioned itself—a title higher still than all the rest which
      this great Prince has earned.”[1]

      So stands it written; in lasting memorial of that year 1744.
      Thirty other years have come and gone; and “this great Prince”
      again lies sick; but in how altered circumstances now! Churches
      resound not with excessive groanings; Paris is stoically calm:
      sobs interrupt no prayers, for indeed none are offered; except
      Priests’ Litanies, read or chanted at fixed money-rate per hour,
      which are not liable to interruption. The shepherd of the people
      has been carried home from Little Trianon, heavy of heart, and
      been put to bed in his own Château of Versailles: the flock knows
      it, and heeds it not. At most, in the immeasurable tide of French
      Speech (which ceases not day after day, and only ebbs towards the
      short hours of night), may this of the royal sickness emerge from
      time to time as an article of news. Bets are doubtless depending;
      nay, some people “express themselves loudly in the streets.”[2]
      But for the rest, on green field and steepled city, the May sun
      shines out, the May evening fades; and men ply their useful or
      useless business as if no Louis lay in danger.

      Dame Dubarry, indeed, might pray, if she had a talent for it;
      Duke d’Aiguillon too, Maupeou and the Parlement Maupeou: these,
      as they sit in their high places, with France harnessed under
      their feet, know well on what basis they continue there. Look to
      it, D’Aiguillon; sharply as thou didst, from the Mill of St.
      Cast, on Quiberon and the invading English; thou, “covered if not
      with glory yet with meal!” Fortune was ever accounted inconstant:
      and each dog has but his day.

      Forlorn enough languished Duke d’Aiguillon, some years ago;
      covered, as we said, with meal; nay with worse. For La Chalotais,
      the Breton Parlementeer, accused him not only of poltroonery and
      tyranny, but even of _concussion_ (official plunder of money);
      which accusations it was easier to get “quashed” by backstairs
      Influences than to get answered: neither could the thoughts, or
      even the tongues, of men be tied. Thus, under disastrous eclipse,
      had this grand-nephew of the great Richelieu to glide about;
      unworshipped by the world; resolute Choiseul, the abrupt proud
      man, disdaining him, or even forgetting him. Little prospect but
      to glide into Gascony, to rebuild Châteaus there,[3] and die
      inglorious killing game! However, in the year 1770, a certain
      young soldier, Dumouriez by name, returning from Corsica, could
      see “with sorrow, at Compiègne, the old King of France, on foot,
      with doffed hat, in sight of his army, at the side of a
      magnificent phaeton, doing homage to the—Dubarry.”[4]

      Much lay therein! Thereby, for one thing, could D’Aiguillon
      postpone the rebuilding of his Château, and rebuild his fortunes
      first. For stout Choiseul would discern in the Dubarry nothing
      but a wonderfully dizened Scarlet-woman; and go on his way as if
      she were not. Intolerable: the source of sighs, tears, of
      pettings and pouting; which would not end till “France” (La
      France, as she named her royal valet) finally mustered heart to
      see Choiseul; and with that “quivering in the chin (_tremblement
      du menton_)” natural in such case,[5] faltered out a dismissal:
      dismissal of his last substantial man, but pacification of his
      scarlet-woman. Thus D’Aiguillon rose again, and culminated. And
      with him there rose Maupeou, the banisher of Parlements; who
      plants you a refractory President “at Croe in Combrailles on the
      top of steep rocks, inaccessible except by litters,” there to
      consider himself. Likewise there rose Abbé Terray, dissolute
      Financier, paying eightpence in the shilling,—so that wits
      exclaim in some press at the playhouse, ‘Where is Abbé Terray,
      that he might reduce us to two-thirds!’ And so have these
      individuals (verily by black-art) built them a Domdaniel, or
      enchanted Dubarrydom; call it an Armida-Palace, where they dwell
      pleasantly; Chancellor Maupeou “playing blind-man’s-buff” with
      the scarlet Enchantress; or gallantly presenting her with dwarf
      Negroes;—and a Most Christian King has unspeakable peace within
      doors, whatever he may have without. “My Chancellor is a
      scoundrel; but I cannot do without him.”[6]

      Beautiful Armida-Palace, where the inmates live enchanted lives;
      lapped in soft music of adulation; waited on by the splendours of
      the world;—which nevertheless hangs wondrously as by a single
      hair. Should the Most Christian King die; or even get seriously
      afraid of dying! For, alas, had not the fair haughty Châteauroux
      to fly, with wet cheeks and flaming heart, from that Fever-scene
      at Metz; driven forth by sour shavelings? She hardly returned,
      when fever and shavelings were both swept into the background.
      Pompadour too, when Damiens wounded Royalty “slightly, under the
      fifth rib,” and our drive to Trianon went off futile, in shrieks
      and madly shaken torches,—had to pack, and be in readiness: yet
      did not go, the wound not proving poisoned. For his Majesty has
      religious faith; believes, at least in a Devil. And now a third
      peril; and who knows what may be in it! For the Doctors look
      grave; ask privily, If his Majesty had not the small-pox long
      ago?—and doubt it may have been a false kind. Yes, Maupeou,
      pucker those sinister brows of thine, and peer out on it with thy
      malign rat-eyes: it is a questionable case. Sure only that man is
      mortal; that with the life of one mortal snaps irrevocably the
      wonderfulest talisman, and all Dubarrydom rushes off, with
      tumult, into infinite Space; and ye, as subterranean Apparitions
      are wont, vanish utterly,—leaving only a smell of sulphur!

      These, and what holds of these may pray,—to Beelzebub, or whoever
      will hear them. But from the rest of France there comes, as was
      said, no prayer; or one of an _opposite_ character, “expressed
      openly in the streets.” Château or Hôtel, were an enlightened
      Philosophism scrutinises many things, is not given to prayer:
      neither are Rossbach victories, Terray Finances, nor, say only
      “sixty thousand _Lettres de Cachet_” (which is Maupeou’s share),
      persuasives towards that. O Hénault! Prayers? From a France
      smitten (by black-art) with plague after plague, and lying now in
      shame and pain, with a Harlot’s foot on its neck, what prayer can
      come? Those lank scarecrows, that prowl hunger-stricken through
      all highways and byways of French Existence, will they pray? The
      dull millions that, in the workshop or furrowfield, grind
      fore-done at the wheel of Labour, like haltered gin-horses, if
      blind so much the quieter? Or they that in the Bicêtre Hospital,
      “eight to a bed,” lie waiting their manumission? Dim are those
      heads of theirs, dull stagnant those hearts: to them the great
      Sovereign is known mainly as the great Regrater of Bread. If they
      hear of his sickness, they will answer with a dull _Tant pis pour
      lui;_ or with the question, Will he die?

      Yes, will he die? that is now, for all France, the grand
      question, and hope; whereby alone the King’s sickness has still
      some interest.


      Chapter 1.1.II.
      Realised Ideals.

      Such a changed France have we; and a changed Louis. Changed,
      truly; and further than thou yet seest!—To the eye of History
      many things, in that sick-room of Louis, are now visible, which
      to the Courtiers there present were invisible. For indeed it is
      well said, “in every object there is inexhaustible meaning; the
      eye sees in it what the eye brings means of seeing.” To Newton
      and to Newton’s Dog Diamond, what a different pair of Universes;
      while the painting on the optical retina of both was, most
      likely, the same! Let the Reader here, in this sick-room of
      Louis, endeavour to look with the mind too.

      Time was when men could (so to speak) of a given man, by
      nourishing and decorating him with fit appliances, to the due
      pitch, _make_ themselves a King, almost as the Bees do; and what
      was still more to the purpose, loyally obey him when made. The
      man so nourished and decorated, thenceforth named royal, does
      verily bear rule; and is said, and even thought, to be, for
      example, “prosecuting conquests in Flanders,” when he lets
      himself like luggage be carried thither: and no light luggage;
      covering miles of road. For he has his unblushing Châteauroux,
      with her band-boxes and rouge-pots, at his side; so that, at
      every new station, a wooden gallery must be run up between their
      lodgings. He has not only his _Maison-Bouche_, and _Valetaille_
      without end, but his very Troop of Players, with their pasteboard
      coulisses, thunder-barrels, their kettles, fiddles,
      stage-wardrobes, portable larders (and chaffering and quarrelling
      enough); all mounted in wagons, tumbrils, second-hand
      chaises,—sufficient not to conquer Flanders, but the patience of
      the world. With such a flood of loud jingling appurtenances does
      he lumber along, prosecuting his conquests in Flanders; wonderful
      to behold. So nevertheless it was and had been: to some solitary
      thinker it might seem strange; but even to him inevitable, not
      unnatural.

      For ours is a most fictile world; and man is the most fingent
      plastic of creatures. A world not fixable; not fathomable! An
      unfathomable Somewhat, which is _Not we;_ which we can work with,
      and live amidst,—and model, miraculously in our miraculous Being,
      and name World.—But if the very Rocks and Rivers (as Metaphysic
      teaches) are, in strict language, _made_ by those outward Senses
      of ours, how much more, by the Inward Sense, are all Phenomena of
      the spiritual kind: Dignities, Authorities, Holies, Unholies!
      Which inward sense, moreover is not permanent like the outward
      ones, but forever growing and changing. Does not the Black
      African take of Sticks and Old Clothes (say, exported
      Monmouth-Street cast-clothes) what will suffice, and of these,
      cunningly combining them, fabricate for himself an Eidolon (Idol,
      or _Thing Seen_), and name it _Mumbo-Jumbo;_ which he can
      thenceforth pray to, with upturned awestruck eye, not without
      hope? The white European mocks; but ought rather to consider; and
      see whether he, at home, could not do the like a little more
      wisely.

      So it _was_, we say, in those conquests of Flanders, thirty years
      ago: but so it no longer is. Alas, much more lies sick than poor
      Louis: not the French King only, but the French Kingship; this
      too, after long rough tear and wear, is breaking down. The world
      is all so changed; so much that seemed vigorous has sunk
      decrepit, so much that was not is beginning to be!—Borne over the
      Atlantic, to the closing ear of Louis, King by the Grace of God,
      what sounds are these; muffled ominous, new in our centuries?
      Boston Harbour is black with unexpected Tea: behold a
      Pennsylvanian Congress gather; and ere long, on Bunker Hill,
      DEMOCRACY announcing, in rifle-volleys death-winged, under her
      Star Banner, to the tune of Yankee-doodle-doo, that she is born,
      and, whirlwind-like, will envelope the whole world!

      Sovereigns die and Sovereignties: how all dies, and is for a Time
      only; is a “Time-phantasm, yet reckons itself real!” The
      Merovingian Kings, slowly wending on their bullock-carts through
      the streets of Paris, with their long hair flowing, have all
      wended slowly on,—into Eternity. Charlemagne sleeps at Salzburg,
      with truncheon grounded; only Fable expecting that he will
      awaken. Charles the Hammer, Pepin Bow-legged, where now is their
      eye of menace, their voice of command? Rollo and his shaggy
      Northmen cover not the Seine with ships; but have sailed off on a
      longer voyage. The hair of Towhead (_Tête d’étoupes_) now needs
      no combing; Iron-cutter (_Taillefer_) cannot cut a cobweb; shrill
      Fredegonda, shrill Brunhilda have had out their hot life-scold,
      and lie silent, their hot life-frenzy cooled. Neither from that
      black Tower de Nesle descends now darkling the doomed gallant, in
      his sack, to the Seine waters; plunging into Night: for Dame de
      Nesle now cares not for this world’s gallantry, heeds not this
      world’s scandal; Dame de Nesle is herself gone into Night. They
      are all gone; sunk,—down, down, with the tumult they made; and
      the rolling and the trampling of ever new generations passes over
      them, and they hear it not any more forever.

      And yet withal has there not been realised somewhat? Consider (to
      go no further) these strong Stone-edifices, and what they hold!
      Mud-Town of the Borderers (_Lutetia Parisiorum_ or _Barisiorum_)
      has paved itself, has spread over all the Seine Islands, and far
      and wide on each bank, and become City of Paris, sometimes
      boasting to be “Athens of Europe,” and even “Capital of the
      Universe.” Stone towers frown aloft; long-lasting, grim with a
      thousand years. Cathedrals are there, and a Creed (or memory of a
      Creed) in them; Palaces, and a State and Law. Thou seest the
      Smoke-vapour; _un_extinguished Breath as of a thing living.
      Labour’s thousand hammers ring on her anvils: also a more
      miraculous Labour works noiselessly, not with the Hand but with
      the Thought. How have cunning workmen in all crafts, with their
      cunning head and right-hand, tamed the Four Elements to be their
      ministers; yoking the winds to their Sea-chariot, making the very
      Stars their Nautical Timepiece;—and written and collected a
      _Bibliothèque du Roi;_ among whose Books is the Hebrew Book! A
      wondrous race of creatures: _these_ have been realised, and what
      of Skill is in these: call not the Past Time, with all its
      confused wretchednesses, a lost one.

      Observe, however, that of man’s whole terrestrial possessions and
      attainments, unspeakably the noblest are his Symbols, divine or
      divine-seeming; under which he marches and fights, with
      victorious assurance, in this life-battle: what we can call his
      Realised Ideals. Of which realised ideals, omitting the rest,
      consider only these two: his Church, or spiritual Guidance; his
      Kingship, or temporal one. The Church: what a word was there;
      richer than Golconda and the treasures of the world! In the heart
      of the remotest mountains rises the little Kirk; the Dead all
      slumbering round it, under their white memorial-stones, “in hope
      of a happy resurrection:”—dull wert thou, O Reader, if never in
      any hour (say of moaning midnight, when such Kirk hung spectral
      in the sky, and Being was as if swallowed up of Darkness) it
      spoke to thee—things unspeakable, that went into thy soul’s soul.
      Strong was he that had a Church, what we can call a Church: he
      stood thereby, though “in the centre of Immensities, in the
      conflux of Eternities,” yet manlike towards God and man; the
      vague shoreless Universe had become for him a firm city, and
      dwelling which he knew. Such virtue was in Belief; in these
      words, well spoken: _I believe_. Well might men prize their
      _Credo_, and raise stateliest Temples for it, and reverend
      Hierarchies, and give it the tithe of their substance; it was
      worth living for and dying for.

      Neither was that an inconsiderable moment when wild armed men
      first raised their Strongest aloft on the buckler-throne, and
      with clanging armour and hearts, said solemnly: Be thou our
      Acknowledged Strongest! In such Acknowledged Strongest (well
      named King, _Kön-ning,_ Can-ning, or Man that was Able) what a
      Symbol shone now for them,—significant with the destinies of the
      world! A Symbol of true Guidance in return for loving Obedience;
      properly, if he knew it, the prime want of man. A Symbol which
      might be called sacred; for is there not, in reverence for what
      is better than we, an indestructible sacredness? On which ground,
      too, it was well said there lay in the Acknowledged Strongest a
      divine right; as surely there might in the Strongest, whether
      Acknowledged or not,—considering _who_ it was that made him
      strong. And so, in the midst of confusions and unutterable
      incongruities (as all growth is confused), did this of Royalty,
      with Loyalty environing it, spring up; and grow mysteriously,
      subduing and assimilating (for a principle of Life was in it);
      till it also had grown world-great, and was among the main Facts
      of our modern existence. Such a Fact, that Louis XIV., for
      example, could answer the expostulatory Magistrate with his
      ‘_L’Etat c’est moi_ (The State? I am the State);’ and be replied
      to by silence and abashed looks. So far had accident and
      forethought; had your Louis Elevenths, with the leaden Virgin in
      their hatband, and torture-wheels and conical _oubliettes_
      (man-eating!) under their feet; your Henri Fourths, with their
      prophesied social millennium, “when every peasant should have his
      fowl in the pot;” and on the whole, the fertility of this most
      fertile Existence (named of Good and Evil),—brought it, in the
      matter of the Kingship. Wondrous! Concerning which may we not
      again say, that in the huge mass of Evil, as it rolls and swells,
      there is ever some Good working imprisoned; working towards
      deliverance and triumph?

      How such Ideals do realise themselves; and grow, wondrously, from
      amid the incongruous ever-fluctuating chaos of the Actual: this
      is what World-History, if it teach any thing, has to teach us,
      How they grow; and, after long stormy growth, bloom out mature,
      supreme; then quickly (for the blossom is brief) fall into decay;
      sorrowfully dwindle; and crumble down, or rush down, noisily or
      noiselessly disappearing. The blossom is so brief; as of some
      centennial Cactus-flower, which after a century of waiting shines
      out for hours! Thus from the day when rough Clovis, in the Champ
      de Mars, in sight of his whole army, had to cleave retributively
      the head of that rough Frank, with sudden battleaxe, and the
      fierce words, ‘It was thus thou clavest the vase’ (St. Remi’s and
      mine) ‘at Soissons,’ forward to Louis the Grand and his _L’Etat
      c’est moi_, we count some twelve hundred years: and now this the
      very next Louis is dying, and so much dying with him!—Nay, thus
      too, if Catholicism, with and against Feudalism (but _not_
      against Nature and her bounty), gave us English a Shakspeare and
      Era of Shakspeare, and so produced a blossom of Catholicism—it
      was not till Catholicism itself, so far as Law could abolish it,
      had been abolished here.

      But of those decadent ages in which no Ideal either grows or
      blossoms? When Belief and Loyalty have passed away, and only the
      cant and false echo of them remains; and all Solemnity has become
      Pageantry; and the Creed of persons in authority has become one
      of two things: an Imbecility or a Macchiavelism? Alas, of these
      ages World-History can take no notice; they have to become
      compressed more and more, and finally suppressed in the Annals of
      Mankind; blotted out as spurious,—which indeed they are. Hapless
      ages: wherein, if ever in any, it is an unhappiness to be born.
      To be born, and to learn only, by every tradition and example,
      that God’s Universe is Belial’s and a Lie; and “the Supreme
      Quack” the hierarch of men! In which mournfulest faith,
      nevertheless, do we not see whole generations (two, and sometimes
      even three successively) live, what they call living; and
      vanish,—without chance of reappearance?

      In such a decadent age, or one fast verging that way, had our
      poor Louis been born. Grant also that if the French Kingship had
      not, by course of Nature, long to live, he of all men was the man
      to accelerate Nature. The Blossom of French Royalty, cactus-like,
      has accordingly made an astonishing progress. In those Metz days,
      it was still standing with all its petals, though bedimmed by
      Orleans Regents and _Roué_ Ministers and Cardinals; but now, in
      1774, we behold it bald, and the virtue nigh gone out of it.

      Disastrous indeed does it look with those same “realised ideals,”
      one and all! The Church, which in its palmy season, seven hundred
      years ago, could make an Emperor wait barefoot, in penance-shift;
      three days, in the snow, has for centuries seen itself decaying;
      reduced even to forget old purposes and enmities, and join
      interest with the Kingship: on this younger strength it would
      fain stay its decrepitude; and these two will henceforth stand
      and fall together. Alas, the Sorbonne still sits there, in its
      old mansion; but mumbles only jargon of dotage, and no longer
      leads the consciences of men: not the Sorbonne; it is
      _Encyclopédies, Philosophie_, and who knows what nameless
      innumerable multitude of ready Writers, profane Singers,
      Romancers, Players, Disputators, and Pamphleteers, that now form
      the Spiritual Guidance of the world. The world’s Practical
      Guidance too is lost, or has glided into the same miscellaneous
      hands. Who is it that the King (_Able-man_, named also _Roi,
      Rex,_ or Director) now guides? His own huntsmen and prickers:
      when there is to be no hunt, it is well said, “_Le Roi ne fera
      rien_ (Today his Majesty will do _nothing_).”[7] He lives and
      lingers there, because he is living there, and none has yet laid
      hands on him.

      The nobles, in like manner, have nearly ceased either to guide or
      misguide; and are now, as their master is, little more than
      ornamental figures. It is long since they have done with
      butchering one another or their king: the Workers, protected,
      encouraged by Majesty, have ages ago built walled towns, and
      there ply their crafts; will permit no Robber Baron to “live by
      the saddle,” but maintain a gallows to prevent it. Ever since
      that period of the _Fronde_, the Noble has changed his fighting
      sword into a court rapier, and now loyally attends his king as
      ministering satellite; divides the spoil, not now by violence and
      murder, but by soliciting and finesse. These men call themselves
      supports of the throne, singular gilt-pasteboard _caryatides_ in
      that singular edifice! For the rest, their privileges every way
      are now much curtailed. That law authorizing a Seigneur, as he
      returned from hunting, to kill not more than two Serfs, and
      refresh his feet in their warm blood and bowels, has fallen into
      perfect desuetude,—and even into incredibility; for if Deputy
      Lapoule can believe in it, and call for the abrogation of it, so
      cannot we.[8] No Charolois, for these last fifty years, though
      never so fond of shooting, has been in use to bring down slaters
      and plumbers, and see them roll from their roofs;[9] but contents
      himself with partridges and grouse. Close-viewed, their industry
      and function is that of dressing gracefully and eating
      sumptuously. As for their debauchery and depravity, it is perhaps
      unexampled since the era of Tiberius and Commodus. Nevertheless,
      one has still partly a feeling with the lady Maréchale: ‘Depend
      upon it, Sir, God thinks twice before damning a man of that
      quality.’[10] These people, of old, surely had virtues, uses; or
      they could not have been there. Nay, one virtue they are still
      required to have (for mortal man cannot live without a
      conscience): the virtue of perfect readiness to fight duels.

      Such are the shepherds of the people: and now how fares it with
      the flock? With the flock, as is inevitable, it fares ill, and
      ever worse. They are not tended, they are only regularly shorn.
      They are sent for, to do statute-labour, to pay statute-taxes; to
      fatten battle-fields (named “Bed of honour”) with their bodies,
      in quarrels which are not theirs; their hand and toil is in every
      possession of man; but for themselves they have little or no
      possession. Untaught, uncomforted, unfed; to pine dully in thick
      obscuration, in squalid destitution and obstruction: this is the
      lot of the millions; _peuple taillable et corvéable à merci et
      miséricorde_. In Brittany they once rose in revolt at the first
      introduction of Pendulum Clocks; thinking it had something to do
      with the _Gabelle_. Paris requires to be cleared out periodically
      by the Police; and the horde of hunger-stricken vagabonds to be
      sent wandering again over space—for a time. “During one such
      periodical clearance,” says Lacretelle, “in May, 1750, the Police
      had presumed withal to carry off some reputable people’s
      children, in the hope of extorting ransoms for them. The mothers
      fill the public places with cries of despair; crowds gather, get
      excited: so many women in destraction run about exaggerating the
      alarm: an absurd and horrid fable arises among the people; it is
      said that the doctors have ordered a Great Person to take baths
      of young human blood for the restoration of his own, all spoiled
      by debaucheries. Some of the rioters,” adds Lacretelle, quite
      coolly, “were hanged on the following days:” the Police went
      on.[11] O ye poor naked wretches! and this, then, is your
      inarticulate cry to Heaven, as of a dumb tortured animal, crying
      from uttermost depths of pain and debasement? Do these azure
      skies, like a dead crystalline vault, only reverberate the echo
      of it on you? Respond to it only by “hanging on the following
      days?”—Not so: not forever! Ye are heard in Heaven. And the
      answer too will come,—in a horror of great darkness, and shakings
      of the world, and a cup of trembling which all the nations shall
      drink.

      Remark, meanwhile, how from amid the wrecks and dust of this
      universal Decay new Powers are fashioning themselves, adapted to
      the new time and its destinies. Besides the old Noblesse,
      originally of Fighters, there is a new recognised Noblesse of
      Lawyers; whose gala-day and proud battle-day even now is. An
      unrecognised Noblesse of Commerce; powerful enough, with money in
      its pocket. Lastly, powerfulest of all, least recognised of all,
      a Noblesse of Literature; without steel on their thigh, without
      gold in their purse, but with the “grand thaumaturgic faculty of
      Thought” in their head. French Philosophism has arisen; in which
      little word how much do we include! Here, indeed, lies properly
      the cardinal symptom of the whole wide-spread malady. Faith is
      gone out; Scepticism is come in. Evil abounds and accumulates: no
      man has Faith to withstand it, to amend it, to begin by amending
      himself; it must even go on accumulating. While hollow langour
      and vacuity is the lot of the Upper, and want and stagnation of
      the Lower, and universal misery is very certain, what other thing
      is certain? That a Lie cannot be believed! Philosophism knows
      only this: her other belief is mainly that, in spiritual
      supersensual matters no Belief is possible. Unhappy! Nay, as yet
      the Contradiction of a Lie is some kind of Belief; but the Lie
      with its Contradiction once swept away, what will remain? The
      five unsatiated Senses will remain, the sixth insatiable Sense
      (of vanity); the whole _dæmonic_ nature of man will
      remain,—hurled forth to rage blindly without rule or rein; savage
      itself, yet with all the tools and weapons of civilisation; a
      spectacle new in History.

      In such a France, as in a Powder-tower, where fire unquenched and
      now unquenchable is smoking and smouldering all round, has Louis
      XV. lain down to die. With Pompadourism and Dubarryism, his
      Fleur-de-lis has been shamefully struck down in all lands and on
      all seas; Poverty invades even the Royal Exchequer, and
      Tax-farming can squeeze out no more; there is a quarrel of
      twenty-five years’ standing with the Parlement; everywhere Want,
      Dishonesty, Unbelief, and hotbrained Sciolists for
      state-physicians: it is a portentous hour.

      Such things can the eye of History see in this sick-room of King
      Louis, which were invisible to the Courtiers there. It is twenty
      years, gone Christmas-day, since Lord Chesterfield, summing up
      what he had noted of this same France, wrote, and sent off by
      post, the following words, that have become memorable: “In short,
      all the symptoms which I have ever met with in History, previous
      to great Changes and Revolutions in government, now exist and
      daily increase in France.”[12]


      Chapter 1.1.III.
      Viaticum.

      For the present, however, the grand question with the Governors
      of France is: Shall extreme unction, or other ghostly viaticum
      (to Louis, not to France), be administered?

      It is a deep question. For, if administered, if so much as spoken
      of, must not, on the very threshold of the business, Witch
      Dubarry vanish; hardly to return should Louis even recover? With
      her vanishes Duke d’Aiguillon and Company, and all their
      Armida-Palace, as was said; Chaos swallows the whole again, and
      there is left nothing but a smell of brimstone. But then, on the
      other hand, what will the Dauphinists and Choiseulists say? Nay
      what may the royal martyr himself say, should he happen to get
      deadly worse, without getting delirious? For the present, he
      still kisses the Dubarry hand; so we, from the ante-room, can
      note: but afterwards? Doctors’ bulletins may run as they are
      ordered, but it is “confluent small-pox,”—of which, as is
      whispered too, the Gatekeeper’s once so buxom Daughter lies ill:
      and Louis XV. is not a man to be trifled with in his viaticum.
      Was he not wont to catechise his very girls in the
      _Parc-aux-cerfs_, and pray with and for them, that they might
      preserve their—orthodoxy?[13] A strange fact, not an unexampled
      one; for there is no animal so strange as man.

      For the moment, indeed, it were all well, could Archbishop
      Beaumont but be prevailed upon—to wink with one eye! Alas,
      Beaumont would himself so fain do it: for, singular to tell, the
      Church too, and whole posthumous hope of Jesuitism, now hangs by
      the apron of this same unmentionable woman. But then “the force
      of public opinion”? Rigorous Christophe de Beaumont, who has
      spent his life in persecuting hysterical Jansenists and
      incredulous Non-confessors; or even their dead bodies, if no
      better might be,—how shall he now open Heaven’s gate, and give
      Absolution with the _corpus delicti_ still under his nose? Our
      Grand-Almoner Roche-Aymon, for his part, will not higgle with a
      royal sinner about turning of the key: but there are other
      Churchmen; there is a King’s Confessor, foolish Abbé Moudon; and
      Fanaticism and Decency are not yet extinct. On the whole, what is
      to be done? The doors can be well watched; the Medical Bulletin
      adjusted; and much, as usual, be hoped for from time and chance.

      The doors are well watched, no improper figure can enter. Indeed,
      few wish to enter; for the putrid infection reaches even to the
      _Œil-de-Bœuf;_ so that “more than fifty fall sick, and ten die.”
      Mesdames the Princesses alone wait at the loathsome sick-bed;
      impelled by filial piety. The three Princesses, _Graille, Chiffe,
      Coche_ (Rag, Snip, Pig, as he was wont to name them), are
      assiduous there; when all have fled. The fourth Princess _Loque_
      (Dud), as we guess, is already in the Nunnery, and can only give
      her orisons. Poor _Graille_ and Sisterhood, they have never known
      a Father: such is the hard bargain Grandeur must make. Scarcely
      at the _Débotter_ (when Royalty took off its boots) could they
      snatch up their “enormous hoops, gird the long train round their
      waists, huddle on their black cloaks of taffeta up to the very
      chin;” and so, in fit appearance of full dress, “every evening at
      six,” walk majestically in; receive their royal kiss on the brow;
      and then walk majestically out again, to embroidery,
      small-scandal, prayers, and vacancy. If Majesty came some
      morning, with coffee of its own making, and swallowed it with
      them hastily while the dogs were uncoupling for the hunt, it was
      received as a grace of Heaven.[14] Poor withered ancient women!
      in the wild tossings that yet await your fragile existence,
      before it be crushed and broken; as ye fly through hostile
      countries, over tempestuous seas, are almost taken by the Turks;
      and wholly, in the Sansculottic Earthquake, know not your right
      hand from your left, be this always an assured place in your
      remembrance: for the act was good and loving! To us also it is a
      little sunny spot, in that dismal howling waste, where we hardly
      find another.

      Meanwhile, what shall an impartial prudent Courtier do? In these
      delicate circumstances, while not only death or life, but even
      sacrament or no sacrament, is a question, the skilfulest may
      falter. Few are so happy as the Duke d’Orléans and the Prince de
      Condé; who can themselves, with volatile salts, attend the King’s
      ante-chamber; and, at the same time, send their brave sons (Duke
      de Chartres, _Egalité_ that is to be; Duke de Bourbon, one day
      Condé too, and famous among Dotards) to wait upon the Dauphin.
      With another few, it is a resolution taken; _jacta est alea_. Old
      Richelieu,—when Beaumont, driven by public opinion, is at last
      for entering the sick-room,—will twitch him by the rochet, into a
      recess; and there, with his old dissipated mastiff-face, and the
      oiliest vehemence, be seen pleading (and even, as we judge by
      Beaumont’s change of colour, prevailing) “that the King be not
      killed by a proposition in Divinity.” Duke de Fronsac, son of
      Richelieu, can follow his father: when the Curé of Versailles
      whimpers something about sacraments, he will threaten to “throw
      him out of the window if he mention such a thing.”

      Happy these, we may say; but to the rest that hover between two
      opinions, is it not trying? He who would understand to what a
      pass Catholicism, and much else, had now got; and how the symbols
      of the Holiest have become gambling-dice of the Basest,—must read
      the narrative of those things by Besenval, and Soulavie, and the
      other Court Newsmen of the time. He will see the Versailles
      Galaxy all scattered asunder, grouped into new ever-shifting
      Constellations. There are nods and sagacious glances;
      go-betweens, silk dowagers mysteriously gliding, with smiles for
      this constellation, sighs for that: there is tremor, of hope or
      desperation, in several hearts. There is the pale grinning Shadow
      of Death, ceremoniously ushered along by another grinning Shadow,
      of Etiquette: at intervals the growl of Chapel Organs, like
      prayer by machinery; proclaiming, as in a kind of horrid diabolic
      horse-laughter, _Vanity of vanities, all is Vanity!_


      Chapter 1.1.IV.
      Louis the Unforgotten.

      Poor Louis! With these it is a hollow phantasmagory, where like
      mimes they mope and mowl, and utter false sounds for hire; but
      with thee it is frightful earnest.

      Frightful to all men is Death; from of old named King of Terrors.
      Our little compact home of an Existence, where we dwelt
      complaining, yet as in a home, is passing, in dark agonies, into
      an Unknown of Separation, Foreignness, unconditioned Possibility.
      The Heathen Emperor asks of his soul: Into what places art thou
      now departing? The Catholic King must answer: To the Judgment-bar
      of the Most High God! Yes, it is a summing-up of Life; a final
      settling, and giving-in the “account of the deeds done in the
      body:” they are done now; and lie there unalterable, and do bear
      their fruits, long as Eternity shall last.

      Louis XV. had always the kingliest abhorrence of Death. Unlike
      that praying Duke of Orleans, _Egalité’s_ grandfather,—for indeed
      several of them had a touch of madness,—who honesty believed that
      there was no Death! He, if the Court Newsmen can be believed,
      started up once on a time, glowing with sulphurous contempt and
      indignation on his poor Secretary, who had stumbled on the words,
      _feu roi d’Espagne_ (the late King of Spain): ‘_Feu roi,
      Monsieur?_’—‘_Monseigneur_,’ hastily answered the trembling but
      adroit man of business, ‘_c’est une titre qu’ils prennent_ (’tis
      a title they take).’[15] Louis, we say, was not so happy; but he
      did what he could. He would not suffer Death to be spoken of;
      avoided the sight of churchyards, funereal monuments, and
      whatsoever could bring it to mind. It is the resource of the
      Ostrich; who, hard hunted, sticks his foolish head in the ground,
      and would fain forget that his foolish unseeing body is not
      unseen too. Or sometimes, with a spasmodic antagonism,
      significant of the same thing, and of more, he _would_ go; or
      stopping his court carriages, would send into churchyards, and
      ask “how many new graves there were today,” though it gave his
      poor Pompadour the disagreeablest qualms. We can figure the
      thought of Louis that day, when, all royally caparisoned for
      hunting, he met, at some sudden turning in the Wood of Senart, a
      ragged Peasant with a coffin: ‘For whom?’—It was for a poor
      brother slave, whom Majesty had sometimes noticed slaving in
      those quarters. ‘What did he die of?’—‘Of hunger:’—the King gave
      his steed the spur.[16]

      But figure his thought, when Death is now clutching at his own
      heart-strings, unlooked for, inexorable! Yes, poor Louis, Death
      has found thee. No palace walls or life-guards, gorgeous
      tapestries or gilt buckram of stiffest ceremonial could keep him
      out; but he is here, here at thy very life-breath, and will
      extinguish it. Thou, whose whole existence hitherto was a chimera
      and scenic show, at length becomest a reality: sumptuous
      Versailles bursts asunder, like a dream, into void Immensity;
      Time is done, and all the scaffolding of Time falls wrecked with
      hideous clangour round thy soul: the pale Kingdoms yawn open;
      there must thou enter, naked, all unking’d, and await what is
      appointed thee! Unhappy man, there as thou turnest, in dull
      agony, on thy bed of weariness, what a thought is thine!
      Purgatory and Hell-fire, now all-too possible, in the prospect;
      in the retrospect,—alas, what thing didst thou do that were not
      better undone; what mortal didst thou generously help; what
      sorrow hadst thou mercy on? Do the “five hundred thousand”
      ghosts, who sank shamefully on so many battle-fields from
      Rossbach to Quebec, that thy Harlot might take revenge for an
      epigram,—crowd round thee in this hour? Thy foul Harem; the
      curses of mothers, the tears and infamy of daughters? Miserable
      man! thou “hast done evil as thou couldst:” thy whole existence
      seems one hideous abortion and mistake of Nature; the use and
      meaning of thee not yet known. Wert thou a fabulous Griffin,
      _devouring_ the works of men; daily dragging virgins to thy
      cave;—clad also in scales that no spear would pierce: no spear
      but Death’s? A Griffin not fabulous but real! Frightful, O Louis,
      seem these moments for thee.—We will pry no further into the
      horrors of a sinner’s death-bed.

      And yet let no meanest man lay flattering unction to his soul.
      Louis was a Ruler; but art not thou also one? His wide France,
      look at it from the Fixed Stars (themselves not yet Infinitude),
      is no wider than thy narrow brickfield, where thou too didst
      faithfully, or didst unfaithfully. Man, “Symbol of Eternity
      imprisoned into Time!” it is not thy works, which are all mortal,
      infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than the least,
      but only the Spirit thou workest in, that can have worth or
      continuance.

      But reflect, in any case, what a life-problem this of poor Louis,
      when he rose as _Bien-Aimé_ from that Metz sick-bed, really was!
      What son of Adam could have swayed such incoherences into
      coherence? Could he? Blindest Fortune alone has cast _him_ on the
      top of it: he swims there; can as little sway it as the drift-log
      sways the wind-tossed moon-stirred Atlantic. ‘What have I done to
      be so loved?’ he said then. He may say now: What have I done to
      be so hated? Thou hast done nothing, poor Louis! Thy fault is
      properly even this, that thou didst _nothing_. What could poor
      Louis do? Abdicate, and wash his hands of it,—in favour of the
      first that would accept! Other clear wisdom there was none for
      him. As it was, he stood gazing dubiously, the absurdest mortal
      extant (a very Solecism Incarnate), into the absurdest confused
      world;—wherein at lost nothing seemed so certain as that he, the
      incarnate Solecism, had five senses; that were Flying Tables
      (_Tables Volantes_, which vanish through the floor, to come back
      reloaded). and a _Parc-aux-cerfs_.

      Whereby at least we have again this historical curiosity: a human
      being in an original position; swimming passively, as on some
      boundless “Mother of Dead Dogs,” towards issues which he partly
      saw. For Louis had withal a kind of insight in him. So, when a
      new Minister of Marine, or what else it might be, came announcing
      his new era, the Scarlet-woman would hear from the lips of
      Majesty at supper: ‘Yes, he spread out his ware like another;
      promised the beautifulest things in the world; not a thing of
      which will come: he does not know this region; he will see.’ Or
      again: ‘’Tis the twentieth time I hear all that; France will
      never get a Navy, I believe.’ How touching also was this: ‘If _I_
      were Lieutenant of Police, I would prohibit those Paris
      cabriolets.’[17]

      Doomed mortal;—for is it not a doom to be Solecism incarnate! A
      new _Roi Fainéant_, King Donothing; but with the strangest new
      _Mayor of the Palace:_ no bow-legged Pepin now for _Mayor_, but
      that same cloud-capt, fire-breathing Spectre of DEMOCRACY;
      incalculable, which is enveloping the world!—Was Louis no
      wickeder than this or the other private Donothing and Eatall;
      such as we often enough see, under the name of Man, and even Man
      of Pleasure, cumbering God’s diligent Creation, for a time? Say,
      wretcheder! His Life-solecism was seen and felt of a whole
      scandalised world; him endless Oblivion cannot engulf, and
      swallow to endless depths,—not yet for a generation or two.

      However, be this as it will, we remark, not without interest,
      that “on the evening of the 4th,” Dame Dubarry issues from the
      sick-room, with perceptible “trouble in her visage.” It is the
      fourth evening of May, year of Grace 1774. Such a whispering in
      the Œil-de-Bœuf! Is he dying then? What can be said is, that
      Dubarry seems making up her packages; she sails weeping through
      her gilt boudoirs, as if taking leave. D’Aiguilon and Company are
      near their last card; nevertheless they will not yet throw up the
      game. But as for the sacramental controversy, it is as good as
      settled without being mentioned; Louis can send for his Abbé
      Moudon in the course of next night, be confessed by him, some say
      for the space of “seventeen minutes,” and demand the sacraments
      of his own accord.

      Nay, already, in the afternoon, behold is not this your Sorceress
      Dubarry with the handkerchief at her eyes, mounting D’Aiguillon’s
      chariot; rolling off in his Duchess’s consolatory arms? She is
      gone; and her place knows her no more. Vanish, false Sorceress;
      into Space! Needless to hover at neighbouring Ruel; for thy day
      is done. Shut are the royal palace-gates for evermore; hardly in
      coming years shalt thou, under cloud of night, descend once, in
      black domino, like a black night-bird, and disturb the fair
      Antoinette’s music-party in the Park: all Birds of Paradise
      flying from thee, and musical windpipes growing mute.[18] Thou
      unclean, yet unmalignant, not unpitiable thing! What a course was
      thine: from that first trucklebed (in Joan of Arc’s country)
      where thy mother bore thee, with tears, to an unnamed father:
      forward, through lowest subterranean depths, and over highest
      sunlit heights, of Harlotdom and Rascaldom—to the guillotine-axe,
      which shears away thy vainly whimpering head! Rest there
      uncursed; only buried and abolished: what else befitted thee?

      Louis, meanwhile, is in considerable impatience for his
      sacraments; sends more than once to the window, to see whether
      they are not coming. Be of comfort, Louis, what comfort thou
      canst: they are under way, those sacraments. Towards six in the
      morning, they arrive. Cardinal Grand-Almoner Roche-Aymon is here,
      in pontificals, with his pyxes and his tools; he approaches the
      royal pillow; elevates his wafer; mutters or seems to mutter
      somewhat;—and so (as the Abbé Georgel, in words that stick to
      one, expresses it) has Louis “made the _amende honorable_ to
      God;” so does your Jesuit construe it.—‘_Wa, Wa_,’ as the wild
      Clotaire groaned out, when life was departing, ‘what great God is
      this that pulls down the strength of the strongest kings!’[19]

      The _amende honorable_, what “legal apology” you will, to
      God:—but not, if D’Aiguillon can help it, to man. Dubarry still
      hovers in his mansion at Ruel; and while there is life, there is
      hope. Grand-Almoner Roche-Aymon, accordingly (for he seems to be
      in the secret), has no sooner seen his pyxes and gear repacked,
      then he is stepping majestically forth again, as if the work were
      done! But King’s Confessor Abbé Moudon starts forward; with
      anxious acidulent face, twitches him by the sleeve; whispers in
      his ear. Whereupon the poor Cardinal must turn round; and declare
      audibly; ‘That his Majesty repents of any subjects of scandal he
      may have given (_a pu donner_); and purposes, by the strength of
      Heaven assisting him, to avoid the like—for the future!’ Words
      listened to by Richelieu with mastiff-face, growing blacker;
      answered to, aloud, “with an epithet,”—which Besenval will not
      repeat. Old Richelieu, conqueror of Minorca, companion of
      Flying-Table orgies, perforator of bedroom walls,[20] is thy day
      also done?

      Alas, the Chapel organs may keep going; the Shrine of Sainte
      Genevieve be let down, and pulled up again,—without effect. In
      the evening the whole Court, with Dauphin and Dauphiness, assist
      at the Chapel: priests are hoarse with chanting their “Prayers of
      Forty Hours;” and the heaving bellows blow. Almost frightful! For
      the very heaven blackens; battering rain-torrents dash, with
      thunder; almost drowning the organ’s voice: and electric
      fire-flashes make the very flambeaux on the altar pale. So that
      the most, as we are told, retired, when it was over, with hurried
      steps, “in a state of meditation (_recueillement_),” and said
      little or nothing.[21]

      So it has lasted for the better half of a fortnight; the Dubarry
      gone almost a week. Besenval says, all the world was getting
      impatient _que cela finît;_ that poor Louis would have done with
      it. It is now the 10th of May 1774. He will soon have done now.

      This tenth May day falls into the loathsome sick-bed; but dull,
      unnoticed there: for they that look out of the windows are quite
      darkened; the cistern-wheel moves discordant on its axis; Life,
      like a spent steed, is panting towards the goal. In their remote
      apartments, Dauphin and Dauphiness stand road-ready; all grooms
      and equerries booted and spurred: waiting for some signal to
      escape the house of pestilence.[22] And, hark! across the
      Œil-de-Bœuf, what sound is that; sound “terrible and absolutely
      like thunder”? It is the rush of the whole Court, rushing as in
      wager, to salute the new Sovereigns: Hail to your Majesties! The
      Dauphin and Dauphiness are King and Queen! Over-powered with many
      emotions, they two fall on their knees together, and, with
      streaming tears, exclaim, ‘O God, guide us, protect us; we are
      too young to reign!’—Too young indeed.

      Thus, in any case, “with a sound absolutely like thunder,” has
      the Horologe of Time struck, and an old Era passed away. The
      Louis that was, lies forsaken, a mass of abhorred clay; abandoned
      “to some poor persons, and priests of the _Chapelle
      Ardente_,”—who make haste to put him “in two lead coffins,
      pouring in abundant spirits of wine.” The new Louis with his
      Court is rolling towards Choisy, through the summer afternoon:
      the royal tears still flow; but a word mispronounced by
      Monseigneur d’Artois sets them all laughing, and they weep no
      more. Light mortals, how ye walk your light life-minuet, over
      bottomless abysses, divided from you by a film!

      For the rest, the proper authorities felt that no Funeral could
      be too unceremonious. Besenval himself thinks it was
      unceremonious enough. Two carriages containing two noblemen of
      the usher species, and a Versailles clerical person; some score
      of mounted pages, some fifty palfreniers; these, with torches,
      but not so much as in black, start from Versailles on the second
      evening with their leaden bier. At a high trot they start; and
      keep up that pace. For the jibes (_brocards_) of those Parisians,
      who stand planted in two rows, all the way to St. Denis, and
      “give vent to their pleasantry, the characteristic of the
      nation,” do not tempt one to slacken. Towards midnight the vaults
      of St. Denis receive their own; unwept by any eye of all these;
      if not by poor _Loque_ his neglected Daughter’s, whose Nunnery is
      hard by.

      Him they crush down, and huddle under-ground, in this impatient
      way; him and his era of sin and tyranny and shame; for behold a
      New Era is come; the future all the brighter that the past was
      base.


      BOOK 1.II.
      THE PAPER AGE


      Chapter 1.2.I.
      Astræa Redux.

      A paradoxical philosopher, carrying to the uttermost length that
      aphorism of Montesquieu’s, “Happy the people whose annals are
      tiresome,” has said, “Happy the people whose annals are vacant.”
      In which saying, mad as it looks, may there not still be found
      some grain of reason? For truly, as it has been written, “Silence
      is divine,” and of Heaven; so in all earthly things too there is
      a silence which is better than any speech. Consider it well, the
      Event, the thing which can be spoken of and recorded, is it not,
      in all cases, some disruption, some solution of continuity? Were
      it even a glad Event, it involves change, involves loss (of
      active Force); and so far, either in the past or in the present,
      is an irregularity, a disease. Stillest perseverance were our
      blessedness; not dislocation and alteration,—could they be
      avoided.

      The oak grows silently, in the forest, a thousand years; only in
      the thousandth year, when the woodman arrives with his axe, is
      there heard an echoing through the solitudes; and the oak
      announces itself when, with a far-sounding crash, it _falls_. How
      silent too was the planting of the acorn; scattered from the lap
      of some wandering wind! Nay, when our oak flowered, or put on its
      leaves (its glad Events), what shout of proclamation could there
      be? Hardly from the most observant a word of recognition. These
      things _befell_ not, they were slowly _done;_ not in an hour, but
      through the flight of days: what was to be said of it? This hour
      seemed altogether as the last was, as the next would be.

      It is thus everywhere that foolish Rumour babbles not of what was
      done, but of what was misdone or undone; and foolish History
      (ever, more or less, the written epitomised synopsis of Rumour)
      knows so little that were not as well unknown. Attila Invasions,
      Walter-the-Penniless Crusades, Sicilian Vespers, Thirty-Years
      Wars: mere sin and misery; not work, but hindrance of work! For
      the Earth, all this while, was yearly green and yellow with her
      kind harvests; the hand of the craftsman, the mind of the thinker
      rested not: and so, after all, and in spite of all, we have this
      so glorious high-domed blossoming World; concerning which, poor
      History may well ask, with wonder, Whence _it_ came? She knows so
      little of it, knows so much of what obstructed it, what would
      have rendered it impossible. Such, nevertheless, by necessity or
      foolish choice, is her rule and practice; whereby that paradox,
      “Happy the people whose annals are vacant,” is not without its
      true side.

      And yet, what seems more pertinent to note here, there is a
      stillness, not of unobstructed growth, but of passive inertness,
      and symptom of imminent downfall. As victory is silent, so is
      defeat. Of the opposing forces the weaker has resigned itself;
      the stronger marches on, noiseless now, but rapid, inevitable:
      the fall and overturn will not be noiseless. How all grows, and
      has its period, even as the herbs of the fields, be it annual,
      centennial, millennial! All grows and dies, each by its own
      wondrous laws, in wondrous fashion of its own; spiritual things
      most wondrously of all. Inscrutable, to the wisest, are these
      latter; not to be prophesied of, or understood. If when the oak
      stands proudliest flourishing to the eye, you know that its heart
      is sound, it is not so with the man; how much less with the
      Society, with the Nation of men! Of such it may be affirmed even
      that the superficial aspect, that the inward feeling of full
      health, is generally ominous. For indeed it is of apoplexy, so to
      speak, and a plethoric lazy habit of body, that Churches,
      Kingships, Social Institutions, oftenest die. Sad, when such
      Institution plethorically says to itself, Take thy ease, thou
      hast goods laid up;—like the fool of the Gospel, to whom it was
      answered, Fool, _this night_ thy life shall be required of thee!

      Is it the healthy peace, or the ominous unhealthy, that rests on
      France, for these next Ten Years? Over which the Historian can
      pass lightly, without call to linger: for as yet events are not,
      much less performances. Time of sunniest stillness;—shall we call
      it, what all men thought it, the new Age of Gold? Call it at
      least, of Paper; which in many ways is the succedaneum of Gold.
      Bank-paper, wherewith you can still buy when there is no gold
      left; Book-paper, splendent with Theories, Philosophies,
      Sensibilities,—beautiful art, not only of revealing Thought, but
      also of so beautifully hiding from us the want of Thought! Paper
      is made from the _rags_ of things that did once exist; there are
      endless excellences in Paper.—What wisest Philosophe, in this
      halcyon uneventful period, could prophesy that there was
      approaching, big with darkness and confusion, the event of
      events? Hope ushers in a Revolution,—as earthquakes are preceded
      by bright weather. On the Fifth of May, fifteen years hence, old
      Louis will not be sending for the Sacraments; but a new Louis,
      his grandson, with the whole pomp of astonished intoxicated
      France, will be opening the States-General.

      Dubarrydom and its D’Aiguillons are gone forever. There is a
      young, still docile, well-intentioned King; a young, beautiful
      and bountiful, well-intentioned Queen; and with them all France,
      as it were, become young. Maupeou and his Parlement have to
      vanish into thick night; respectable Magistrates, not indifferent
      to the Nation, were it only for having been opponents of the
      Court, can descend unchained from their “steep rocks at Croe in
      Combrailles” and elsewhere, and return singing praises: the old
      Parlement of Paris resumes its functions. Instead of a profligate
      bankrupt Abbé Terray, we have now, for Controller-General, a
      virtuous philosophic Turgot, with a whole Reformed France in his
      head. By whom whatsoever is wrong, in Finance or otherwise, will
      be righted,—as far as possible. Is it not as if Wisdom herself
      were henceforth to have seat and voice in the Council of Kings?
      Turgot has taken office with the noblest plainness of speech to
      that effect; been listened to with the noblest royal
      trustfulness.[23] It is true, as King Louis objects, ‘They say he
      never goes to mass;’ but liberal France likes him little worse
      for that; liberal France answers, ‘The Abbé Terray always went.’
      Philosophism sees, for the first time, a Philosophe (or even a
      Philosopher) in office: she in all things will applausively
      second him; neither will light old Maurepas obstruct, if he can
      easily help it.

      Then how “sweet” are the manners; vice “losing all its
      deformity;” becoming _decent_ (as established things, making
      regulations for themselves, do); becoming almost a kind of
      “sweet” virtue! Intelligence so abounds; irradiated by wit and
      the art of conversation. Philosophism sits joyful in her
      glittering saloons, the dinner-guest of Opulence grown ingenuous,
      the very nobles proud to sit by her; and preaches, lifted up over
      all Bastilles, a coming millennium. From far Ferney, Patriarch
      Voltaire gives sign: veterans Diderot, D’Alembert have lived to
      see this day; these with their younger Marmontels, Morellets,
      Chamforts, Raynals, make glad the spicy board of rich ministering
      Dowager, of philosophic Farmer-General. O nights and suppers of
      the gods! Of a truth, the long-demonstrated will now be done:
      “the Age of Revolutions approaches” (as Jean Jacques wrote), but
      then of happy blessed ones. Man awakens from his long
      somnambulism; chases the Phantasms that beleagured and bewitched
      him. Behold the new morning glittering down the eastern steeps;
      fly, false Phantasms, from its shafts of light; let the Absurd
      fly utterly forsaking this lower Earth for ever. It is Truth and
      _Astræa Redux_ that (in the shape of Philosophism) henceforth
      reign. For what imaginable purpose was man made, if not to be
      “happy”? By victorious Analysis, and Progress of the Species,
      happiness enough now awaits him. Kings can become philosophers;
      or else philosophers Kings. Let but Society be once rightly
      constituted,—by victorious Analysis. The stomach that is empty
      shall be filled; the throat that is dry shall be wetted with
      wine. Labour itself shall be all one as rest; not grievous, but
      joyous. Wheatfields, one would think, cannot come to grow
      untilled; no man made clayey, or made weary thereby;—unless
      indeed machinery will do it? Gratuitous Tailors and Restaurateurs
      may start up, at fit intervals, one as yet sees not how. But if
      each will, according to rule of Benevolence, have a care for all,
      then surely—no one will be uncared for. Nay, who knows but, by
      sufficiently victorious Analysis, “human life may be indefinitely
      lengthened,” and men get rid of Death, as they have already done
      of the Devil? We shall then be happy in spite of Death and the
      Devil.—So preaches magniloquent Philosophism her _Redeunt
      Saturnia regna._

      The prophetic song of Paris and its Philosophes is audible enough
      in the Versailles Œil-de-Bœuf; and the Œil-de-Bœuf, intent
      chiefly on nearer blessedness, can answer, at worst, with a
      polite ‘Why not?’ Good old cheery Maurepas is too joyful a Prime
      Minister to dash the world’s joy. Sufficient for the day be its
      own evil. Cheery old man, he cuts his jokes, and hovers careless
      along; his cloak well adjusted to the wind, if so be he may
      please all persons. The simple young King, whom a Maurepas cannot
      think of troubling with business, has retired into the interior
      apartments; taciturn, irresolute; though with a sharpness of
      temper at times: he, at length, determines on a little smithwork;
      and so, in apprenticeship with a Sieur Gamain (whom one day he
      shall have little cause to bless), is learning to make locks.[24]
      It appears further, he understood Geography; and could read
      English. Unhappy young King, his childlike trust in that foolish
      old Maurepas deserved another return. But friend and foe, destiny
      and himself have combined to do him hurt.

      Meanwhile the fair young Queen, in her halls of state, walks like
      a goddess of Beauty, the cynosure of all eyes; as yet mingles not
      with affairs; heeds not the future; least of all, dreads it.
      Weber and Campan[25] have pictured her, there within the royal
      tapestries, in bright boudoirs, baths, peignoirs, and the Grand
      and Little Toilette; with a whole brilliant world waiting
      obsequious on her glance: fair young daughter of Time, what
      things has Time in store for thee! Like Earth’s brightest
      Appearance, she moves gracefully, environed with the grandeur of
      Earth: a reality, and yet a magic vision; for, behold, shall not
      utter Darkness swallow it! The soft young heart adopts orphans,
      portions meritorious maids, delights to succour the poor,—such
      poor as come picturesquely in her way; and sets the fashion of
      doing it; for as was said, Benevolence has now begun reigning. In
      her Duchess de Polignac, in Princess de Lamballe, she enjoys
      something almost like friendship; now too, after seven long
      years, she has a child, and soon even a Dauphin, of her own; can
      reckon herself, as Queens go, happy in a husband.

      Events? The Grand events are but charitable Feasts of Morals
      (_Fêtes des mœurs_), with their Prizes and Speeches; Poissarde
      Processions to the Dauphin’s cradle; above all, Flirtations,
      their rise, progress, decline and fall. There are Snow-statues
      raised by the poor in hard winter to a Queen who has given them
      fuel. There are masquerades, theatricals; beautifyings of little
      Trianon, purchase and repair of St. Cloud; journeyings from the
      summer Court-Elysium to the winter one. There are poutings and
      grudgings from the Sardinian Sisters-in-law (for the Princes too
      are wedded); little jealousies, which Court-Etiquette can
      moderate. Wholly the lightest-hearted frivolous foam of
      Existence; yet an artfully refined foam; pleasant were it not so
      costly, like that which mantles on the wine of Champagne!

      Monsieur, the King’s elder Brother, has set up for a kind of wit;
      and leans towards the Philosophe side. Monseigneur d’Artois pulls
      the mask from a fair impertinent; fights a duel in
      consequence,—almost drawing blood.[26] He has breeches of a kind
      new in this world;—a fabulous kind; “four tall lackeys,” says
      Mercier, as if he had seen it, “hold him up in the air, that he
      may fall into the garment without vestige of wrinkle; from which
      rigorous encasement the same four, in the same way, and with more
      effort, must deliver him at night.”[27] This last is he who now,
      as a gray time-worn man, sits desolate at Grätz;[28] having
      winded up his destiny with the Three Days. In such sort are poor
      mortals swept and shovelled to and fro.


      Chapter 1.2.II.
      Petition in Hieroglyphs.

      With the working people, again it is not so well. Unlucky! For
      there are twenty to twenty-five millions of them. Whom, however,
      we lump together into a kind of dim compendious unity, monstrous
      but dim, far off, as the _canaille;_ or, more humanely, as “the
      masses.” Masses, indeed: and yet, singular to say, if, with an
      effort of imagination, thou follow them, over broad France, into
      their clay hovels, into their garrets and hutches, the masses
      consist all of units. Every unit of whom has his own heart and
      sorrows; stands covered there with his own skin, and if you prick
      him he will bleed. O purple Sovereignty, Holiness, Reverence;
      thou, for example, Cardinal Grand-Almoner, with thy plush
      covering of honour, who hast thy hands strengthened with
      dignities and moneys, and art set on thy world watch-tower
      solemnly, in sight of God, for such ends,—what a thought: that
      every unit of these masses is a miraculous Man, even as thyself
      art; struggling, with vision, or with blindness, for _his_
      infinite Kingdom (this life which he has got, once only, in the
      middle of Eternities); with a spark of the Divinity, what thou
      callest an immortal soul, in him!

      Dreary, languid do these struggle in their obscure remoteness;
      their hearth cheerless, their diet thin. For them, in this world,
      rises no Era of Hope; hardly now in the other,—if it be not hope
      in the gloomy rest of Death, for their faith too is failing.
      Untaught, uncomforted, unfed! A dumb generation; their voice only
      an inarticulate cry: spokesman, in the King’s Council, in the
      world’s forum, they have none that finds credence. At rare
      intervals (as now, in 1775), they will fling down their hoes and
      hammers; and, to the astonishment of thinking mankind,[29] flock
      hither and thither, dangerous, aimless; get the length even of
      Versailles. Turgot is altering the Corn-trade, abrogating the
      absurdest Corn-laws; there is dearth, real, or were it even
      “factitious;” an indubitable scarcity of bread. And so, on the
      second day of May 1775, these waste multitudes do here, at
      Versailles Château, in wide-spread wretchedness, in sallow faces,
      squalor, winged raggedness, present, as in legible hieroglyphic
      writing, their Petition of Grievances. The Château gates have to
      be shut; but the King will appear on the balcony, and speak to
      them. They have seen the King’s face; their Petition of
      Grievances has been, if not read, looked at. For answer, two of
      them are hanged, on a “new gallows forty feet high;” and the rest
      driven back to their dens,—for a time.

      Clearly a difficult “point” for Government, that of dealing with
      these masses;—if indeed it be not rather the sole point and
      problem of Government, and all other points mere accidental
      crotchets, superficialities, and beatings of the wind! For let
      Charter-Chests, Use and Wont, Law common and special say what
      they will, the masses count to so many millions of units; made,
      to all appearance, by God,—whose Earth this is declared to be.
      Besides, the people are not without ferocity; they have sinews
      and indignation. Do but look what holiday old Marquis Mirabeau,
      the crabbed old friend of Men, looked on, in these same years,
      from his lodging, at the Baths of Mont d’Or: “The savages
      descending in torrents from the mountains; our people ordered not
      to go out. The Curate in surplice and stole; Justice in its
      peruke; Marechausee sabre in hand, guarding the place, till the
      bagpipes can begin. The dance interrupted, in a quarter of an
      hour, by battle; the cries, the squealings of children, of infirm
      persons, and other assistants, tarring them on, as the rabble
      does when dogs fight: frightful men, or rather frightful wild
      animals, clad in jupes of coarse woollen, with large girdles of
      leather studded with copper nails; of gigantic stature,
      heightened by high wooden-clogs (_sabots_); rising on tiptoe to
      see the fight; tramping time to it; rubbing their sides with
      their elbows: their faces haggard (_figures hâves_), and covered
      with their long greasy hair; the upper part of the visage waxing
      pale, the lower distorting itself into the attempt at a cruel
      laugh and a sort of ferocious impatience. And these people pay
      the _taille!_ And you want further to take their salt from them!
      And you know not what it is you are stripping barer, or as you
      call it, governing; what by the spurt of your pen, in its cold
      dastard indifference, you will fancy you can starve always with
      impunity; always till the catastrophe come!—Ah Madame, such
      Government by Blindman’s-buff, stumbling along too far, will end
      in the General Overturn (_culbute générale_).”[30]

      Undoubtedly a dark feature this in an Age of Gold,—Age, at least,
      of Paper and Hope! Meanwhile, trouble us not with thy prophecies,
      O croaking Friend of Men: ’tis long that we have heard such; and
      still the old world keeps wagging, in its old way.


      Chapter 1.2.III.
      Questionable.

      Or is this same Age of Hope itself but a simulacrum; as Hope too
      often is? Cloud-vapour with rainbows painted on it, beautiful to
      see, to sail towards,—which hovers over Niagara Falls? In that
      case, victorious Analysis will have enough to do.

      Alas, yes! a whole world to remake, if she could see it; work for
      another than she! For all is wrong, and gone out of joint; the
      inward spiritual, and the outward economical; head or heart,
      there is no soundness in it. As indeed, evils of all sorts are
      more or less of kin, and do usually go together: especially it is
      an old truth, that wherever huge physical evil is, there, as the
      parent and origin of it, has moral evil to a proportionate extent
      been. Before those five-and-twenty labouring Millions, for
      instance, could get that haggardness of face, which old Mirabeau
      now looks on, in a Nation calling itself Christian, and calling
      man the brother of man,—what unspeakable, nigh infinite
      Dishonesty (of _seeming_ and not _being_) in all manner of
      Rulers, and appointed Watchers, spiritual and temporal, must
      there not, through long ages, have gone on accumulating! It will
      accumulate: moreover, it will reach a head; for the first of all
      Gospels is this, that a Lie cannot endure for ever.

      In fact, if we pierce through that rosepink vapour of
      Sentimentalism, Philanthropy, and Feasts of Morals, there lies
      behind it one of the sorriest spectacles. You might ask, What
      bonds that ever held a human society happily together, or held it
      together at all, are in force here? It is an unbelieving people;
      which has suppositions, hypotheses, and froth-systems of
      victorious Analysis; and for _belief_ this mainly, that Pleasure
      is pleasant. Hunger they have for all sweet things; and the law
      of Hunger; but what other law? Within them, or over them,
      properly none!

      Their King has become a King Popinjay; with his Maurepas
      Government, gyrating as the weather-cock does, blown about by
      every wind. Above them they see no God; or they even do not look
      above, except with astronomical glasses. The Church indeed still
      is; but in the most submissive state; quite tamed by
      Philosophism; in a singularly short time; for the hour was come.
      Some twenty years ago, your Archbishop Beaumont would not even
      let the poor Jansenists get buried: your Loménie Brienne (a
      rising man, whom we shall meet with yet) could, in the name of
      the Clergy, insist on having the Anti-protestant laws, which
      condemn to death for preaching, “put in execution.”[31] And,
      alas, now not so much as Baron Holbach’s Atheism can be
      burnt,—except as pipe-matches by the private speculative
      individual. Our Church stands haltered, dumb, like a dumb ox;
      lowing only for provender (of tithes); content if it can have
      that; or, dumbly, dully expecting its further doom. And the
      Twenty Millions of “haggard faces;” and, as finger-post and
      guidance to them in their dark struggle, “a gallows forty feet
      high”! Certainly a singular Golden Age; with its Feasts of
      Morals, its “sweet manners,” its sweet institutions
      (_institutions douces_); betokening nothing but peace among
      men!—Peace? O Philosophe-Sentimentalism, what hast thou to do
      with peace, when thy mother’s name is Jezebel? Foul Product of
      still fouler Corruption, thou with the corruption art doomed!

      Meanwhile it is singular how long the rotten will hold together,
      provided you do not handle it roughly. For whole generations it
      continues standing, “with a ghastly affectation of life,” after
      all life and truth has fled out of it; so loth are men to quit
      their old ways; and, conquering indolence and inertia, venture on
      new. Great truly is the Actual; is the Thing that has rescued
      itself from bottomless deeps of theory and possibility, and
      stands there as a definite indisputable Fact, whereby men do work
      and live, or once did so. Widely shall men cleave to that, while
      it will endure; and quit it with regret, when it gives way under
      them. Rash enthusiast of Change, beware! Hast thou well
      considered all that Habit does in this life of ours; how all
      Knowledge and all Practice hang wondrous over infinite abysses of
      the Unknown, Impracticable; and our whole being is an infinite
      abyss, _overarched_ by Habit, as by a thin Earth-rind,
      laboriously built together?

      But if “every man,” as it has been written, “holds confined
      within him a _mad_-man,” what must every Society do;—Society,
      which in its commonest state is called “the standing miracle of
      this world”! “Without such Earth-rind of Habit,” continues our
      author, “call it System of Habits, in a word, _fixed ways_ of
      acting and of believing,—Society would not exist at all. With
      such it exists, better or worse. Herein too, in this its System
      of Habits, acquired, retained how you will, lies the true
      Law-Code and Constitution of a Society; the only Code, though an
      unwritten one which it can in nowise _dis_obey. The thing we call
      written Code, Constitution, Form of Government, and the like,
      what is it but some miniature image, and solemnly expressed
      summary of this unwritten Code? _Is_,—or rather alas, is _not;_
      but only should be, and always tends to be! In which latter
      discrepancy lies struggle without end.” And now, we add in the
      same dialect, let but, by ill chance, in such ever-enduring
      struggle,—your “thin Earth-rind” be once _broken!_ The fountains
      of the great deep boil forth; fire-fountains, enveloping,
      engulfing. Your “Earth-rind” is shattered, swallowed up; instead
      of a green flowery world, there is a waste wild-weltering
      chaos:—which has again, with tumult and struggle, to _make_
      itself into a world.

      On the other hand, be this conceded: Where thou findest a Lie
      that is oppressing thee, extinguish it. Lies exist there only to
      be extinguished; they wait and cry earnestly for extinction.
      Think well, meanwhile, in what spirit thou wilt do it: not with
      hatred, with headlong selfish violence; but in clearness of
      heart, with holy zeal, gently, almost with pity. Thou wouldst not
      _replace_ such extinct Lie by a new Lie, which a new Injustice of
      thy own were; the parent of still other Lies? Whereby the latter
      end of that business were worse than the beginning.

      So, however, in this world of ours, which has both an
      indestructible hope in the Future, and an indestructible tendency
      to persevere as in the Past, must Innovation and Conservation
      wage their perpetual conflict, as they may and can. Wherein the
      “dæmonic element,” that lurks in all human things, _may_
      doubtless, some once in the thousand years—get vent! But indeed
      may we not regret that such conflict,—which, after all, is but
      like that classical one of “hate-filled Amazons with heroic
      Youths,” and will end in _embraces_,—should usually be so
      spasmodic? For Conservation, strengthened by that mightiest
      quality in us, our indolence, sits for long ages, not victorious
      only, which she should be; but tyrannical, incommunicative. She
      holds her adversary as if annihilated; such adversary lying, all
      the while, like some buried Enceladus; who, to gain the smallest
      freedom, must stir a whole Trinacria with it Ætnas.

      Wherefore, on the whole, we will honour a Paper Age too; an Era
      of hope! For in this same frightful process of Enceladus Revolt;
      when the task, on which no mortal would willingly enter, has
      become imperative, inevitable,—is it not even a kindness of
      Nature that she lures us forward by cheerful promises, fallacious
      or not; and a whole generation plunges into the Erebus Blackness,
      lighted on by an Era of Hope? It has been well said: “Man is
      based on Hope; he has properly no other possession but Hope; this
      habitation of his is named the Place of Hope.”


      Chapter 1.2.IV.
      Maurepas.

      But now, among French hopes, is not that of old M. de Maurepas
      one of the best-grounded; who hopes that he, by dexterity, shall
      contrive to continue Minister? Nimble old man, who for all
      emergencies has his light jest; and ever in the worst confusion
      will emerge, cork-like, unsunk! Small care to him is
      Perfectibility, Progress of the Species, and _Astræa Redux:_ good
      only, that a man of light wit, verging towards fourscore, can in
      the seat of authority feel himself important among men. Shall we
      call him, as haughty Châteauroux was wont of old, “_M. Faquinet_
      (Diminutive of Scoundrel)”? In courtier dialect, he is now named
      “the Nestor of France;” such governing Nestor as France has.

      At bottom, nevertheless, it might puzzle one to say where the
      Government of France, in these days, specially is. In that
      Château of Versailles, we have Nestor, King, Queen, ministers and
      clerks, with paper-bundles tied in tape: but the Government? For
      Government is a thing that _governs_, that guides; and if need
      be, compels. Visible in France there is not such a thing.
      Invisible, inorganic, on the other hand, there is: in Philosophe
      saloons, in Œil-de-Bœuf galleries; in the tongue of the babbler,
      in the pen of the pamphleteer. Her Majesty appearing at the Opera
      is applauded; she returns all radiant with joy. Anon the
      applauses wax fainter, or threaten to cease; she is heavy of
      heart, the light of her face has fled. Is Sovereignty some poor
      Montgolfier; which, blown into by the popular wind, grows great
      and mounts; or sinks flaccid, if the wind be withdrawn? France
      was long a “Despotism tempered by Epigrams;” and now, it would
      seem, the Epigrams have get the upper hand.

      Happy were a young “Louis the Desired” to make France happy; if
      it did not prove too troublesome, and he only knew the way. But
      there is endless discrepancy round him; so many claims and
      clamours; a mere confusion of tongues. Not reconcilable by man;
      not manageable, suppressible, save by some strongest and wisest
      men;—which only a lightly-jesting lightly-gyrating M. de Maurepas
      can so much as subsist amidst. Philosophism claims her new Era,
      meaning thereby innumerable things. And claims it in no faint
      voice; for France at large, hitherto mute, is now beginning to
      speak also; and speaks in that same sense. A huge, many-toned
      sound; distant, yet not unimpressive. On the other hand, the
      Œil-de-Bœuf, which, as nearest, one can hear best, claims with
      shrill vehemence that the Monarchy be as heretofore a Horn of
      Plenty; wherefrom loyal courtiers may draw,—to the just support
      of the throne. Let Liberalism and a New Era, if such is the wish,
      be introduced; only no curtailment of the royal moneys? Which
      latter condition, alas, is precisely the impossible one.

      Philosophism, as we saw, has got her Turgot made
      Controller-General; and there shall be endless reformation.
      Unhappily this Turgot could continue only twenty months. With a
      miraculous _Fortunatus’ Purse_ in his Treasury, it might have
      lasted longer; with such Purse indeed, every French
      Controller-General, that would prosper in these days, ought first
      to provide himself. But here again may we not remark the bounty
      of Nature in regard to Hope? Man after man advances confident to
      the Augean Stable, as if _he_ could clean it; expends his little
      fraction of an ability on it, with such cheerfulness; does, in so
      far as he was honest, accomplish something. Turgot has faculties;
      honesty, insight, heroic volition; but the Fortunatus’ Purse he
      has not. Sanguine Controller-General! a whole pacific French
      Revolution may stand schemed in the head of the thinker; but who
      shall pay the unspeakable “indemnities” that will be needed?
      Alas, far from that: on the very threshold of the business, he
      proposes that the Clergy, the Noblesse, the very Parlements be
      subjected to taxes! One shriek of indignation and astonishment
      reverberates through all the Château galleries; M. de Maurepas
      has to gyrate: the poor King, who had written few weeks ago, “_Il
      n’y a que vous et moi qui aimions le peuple_ (There is none but
      you and I that has the people’s interest at heart),” must write
      now a dismissal;[32] and let the French Revolution accomplish
      itself, pacifically or not, as it can.

      Hope, then, is deferred? Deferred; not destroyed, or abated. Is
      not this, for example, our Patriarch Voltaire, after long years
      of absence, revisiting Paris? With face shrivelled to nothing;
      with “huge peruke _à la Louis Quatorze_, which leaves only two
      eyes ‘visible’ glittering like carbuncles,” the old man is
      here.[33] What an outburst! Sneering Paris has suddenly grown
      reverent; devotional with Hero-worship. Nobles have disguised
      themselves as tavern-waiters to obtain sight of him: the
      loveliest of France would lay their hair beneath his feet. “His
      chariot is the nucleus of a comet; whose train fills whole
      streets:” they crown him in the theatre, with immortal vivats;
      “finally stifle him under roses,”—for old Richelieu recommended
      opium in such state of the nerves, and the excessive Patriarch
      took too much. Her Majesty herself had some thought of sending
      for him; but was dissuaded. Let Majesty consider it,
      nevertheless. The purport of this man’s existence has been to
      wither up and annihilate all whereon Majesty and Worship for the
      present rests: and is it _so_ that the world recognises him? With
      Apotheosis; as its Prophet and Speaker, who has spoken wisely the
      thing it longed to say? Add only, that the body of this same
      rose-stifled, beatified-Patriarch cannot get buried except by
      stealth. It is wholly a notable business; and France, without
      doubt, is _big_ (what the Germans call “Of good Hope”): we shall
      wish her a happy birth-hour, and blessed fruit.

      Beaumarchais too has now winded-up his Law-Pleadings
      (_Mémoires_);[34] not without result, to himself and to the
      world. Caron Beaumarchais (or de Beaumarchais, for he got
      ennobled) had been born poor, but aspiring, esurient; with
      talents, audacity, adroitness; above all, with the talent for
      intrigue: a lean, but also a tough, indomitable man. Fortune and
      dexterity brought him to the harpsichord of Mesdames, our good
      Princesses _Loque, Graille_ and Sisterhood. Still better, Paris
      Duvernier, the Court-Banker, honoured him with some confidence;
      to the length even of transactions in cash. Which confidence,
      however, Duvernier’s Heir, a person of quality, would not
      continue. Quite otherwise; there springs a Lawsuit from it:
      wherein tough Beaumarchais, losing both money and repute, is, in
      the opinion of Judge-Reporter Goezman, of the Parlement Maupeou,
      of a whole indifferent acquiescing world, miserably beaten. In
      all men’s opinions, only not in his own! Inspired by the
      indignation, which makes, if not verses, satirical law-papers,
      the withered Music-master, with a desperate heroism, takes up his
      lost cause in spite of the world; fights for it, against
      Reporters, Parlements and Principalities, with light banter, with
      clear logic; adroitly, with an inexhaustible toughness and
      resource, like the skilfullest fencer; on whom, so skilful is he,
      the whole world now looks. Three long years it lasts; with
      wavering fortune. In fine, after labours comparable to the Twelve
      of Hercules, our unconquerable Caron triumphs; regains his
      Lawsuit and Lawsuits; strips Reporter Goezman of the judicial
      ermine; covering him with a perpetual garment of obloquy
      instead:—and in regard to the Parlement Maupeou (which he has
      helped to extinguish), to Parlements of all kinds, and to French
      Justice generally, gives rise to endless reflections in the minds
      of men. Thus has Beaumarchais, like a lean French Hercules,
      ventured down, driven by destiny, into the Nether Kingdoms; and
      victoriously tamed hell-dogs there. He also is henceforth among
      the notabilities of his generation.


      Chapter 1.2.V.
      Astræa Redux without Cash.

      Observe, however, beyond the Atlantic, has not the new day verily
      dawned! Democracy, as we said, is born; storm-girt, is struggling
      for life and victory. A sympathetic France rejoices over the
      Rights of Man; in all saloons, it is said, What a spectacle! Now
      too behold our Deane, our Franklin, American Plenipotentiaries,
      here in position soliciting;[35] the sons of the Saxon Puritans,
      with their Old-Saxon temper, Old-Hebrew culture, sleek Silas,
      sleek Benjamin, here on such errand, among the light children of
      Heathenism, Monarchy, Sentimentalism, and the Scarlet-woman. A
      spectacle indeed; over which saloons may cackle joyous; though
      Kaiser Joseph, questioned on it, gave this answer, most
      unexpected from a Philosophe: ‘Madame, the trade I live by is
      that of royalist (_Mon métier à moi c’est d’être royaliste_).’

      So thinks light Maurepas too; but the wind of Philosophism and
      force of public opinion will blow him round. Best wishes,
      meanwhile, are sent; clandestine privateers armed. Paul Jones
      shall equip his _Bon Homme Richard:_ weapons, military stores can
      be smuggled over (if the English do not seize them); wherein,
      once more Beaumarchais, dimly as the Giant Smuggler becomes
      visible,—filling his own lank pocket withal. But surely, in any
      case, France should have a Navy. For which great object were not
      now the time: now when that proud Termagant of the Seas has her
      hands full? It is true, an impoverished Treasury cannot build
      ships; but the hint once given (which Beaumarchais says he gave),
      this and the other loyal Seaport, Chamber of Commerce, will build
      and offer them. Goodly vessels bound into the waters; a _Ville de
      Paris_, Leviathan of ships.

      And now when gratuitous three-deckers dance there at anchor, with
      streamers flying; and eleutheromaniac Philosophedom grows ever
      more clamorous, what can a Maurepas do—but gyrate? Squadrons
      cross the ocean: Gages, Lees, rough Yankee Generals, “with
      woollen night-caps under their hats,” present arms to the
      far-glancing Chivalry of France; and new-born Democracy sees, not
      without amazement, “Despotism tempered by Epigrams” fight at her
      side. So, however, it is. King’s forces and heroic volunteers;
      Rochambeaus, Bouillés, Lameths, Lafayettes, have drawn their
      swords in this sacred quarrel of mankind;—shall draw them again
      elsewhere, in the strangest way.

      Off Ushant some naval thunder is heard. In the course of which
      did our young Prince, Duke de Chartres, “hide in the hold;” or
      did he materially, by _active_ heroism, contribute to the
      victory? Alas, by a second edition, we learn that there was no
      victory; or that English Keppel had it.[36] Our poor young Prince
      gets his Opera plaudits changed into mocking tehees; and cannot
      become Grand-Admiral,—the source to him of woes which one may
      call endless.

      Woe also for _Ville de Paris_, the Leviathan of ships! English
      Rodney has clutched it, and led it home, with the rest; so
      successful was his new “manœuvre of breaking the enemy’s
      line.”[37] It seems as if, according to Louis XV., “France were
      never to have a Navy.” Brave Suffren must return from Hyder Ally
      and the Indian Waters; with small result; yet with great glory
      for “six” _non-defeats;_—which indeed, with such seconding as he
      had, one may reckon heroic. Let the old sea-hero rest now,
      honoured of France, in his native Cevennes mountains; send smoke,
      not of gunpowder, but mere culinary smoke, through the old
      chimneys of the Castle of Jalès,—which one day, in other hands,
      shall have other fame. Brave Lapérouse shall by and by lift
      anchor, on philanthropic Voyage of Discovery; for the King knows
      Geography.[38] But, alas, this also will not prosper: the brave
      Navigator goes, and returns not; the Seekers search far seas for
      him in vain. He has vanished trackless into blue Immensity; and
      only some mournful mysterious shadow of him hovers long in all
      heads and hearts.

      Neither, while the War yet lasts, will Gibraltar surrender. Not
      though Crillon, Nassau-Siegen, with the ablest projectors extant,
      are there; and Prince Condé and Prince d’Artois have hastened to
      help. Wondrous leather-roofed Floating-batteries, set afloat by
      French-Spanish _Pacte de Famille_, give gallant summons: to
      which, nevertheless, Gibraltar answers Plutonically, with mere
      torrents of redhot iron,—as if stone Calpe had become a throat of
      the Pit; and utters such a Doom’s-blast of a No, as all men must
      credit.[39]

      And so, with this loud explosion, the noise of War has ceased; an
      Age of Benevolence may hope, for ever. Our noble volunteers of
      Freedom have returned, to be her missionaries. Lafayette, as the
      matchless of his time, glitters in the Versailles Œil-de-Beouf;
      has his Bust set up in the Paris Hôtel-de-Ville. Democracy stands
      inexpugnable, immeasurable, in her New World; has even a foot
      lifted towards the Old;—and our French Finances, little
      strengthened by such work, are in no healthy way.

      What to do with the Finance? This indeed is the great question: a
      small but most black weather-symptom, which no radiance of
      universal hope can cover. We saw Turgot cast forth from the
      Controllership, with shrieks,—for want of a Fortunatus’ Purse. As
      little could M. de Clugny manage the duty; or indeed do anything,
      but consume his wages; attain “a place in History,” where as an
      ineffectual shadow thou beholdest him still lingering;—and let
      the duty manage itself. Did Genevese Necker _possess_ such a
      Purse, then? He possessed banker’s skill, banker’s honesty;
      _credit_ of all kinds, for he had written Academic Prize Essays,
      struggled for India Companies, given dinners to Philosophes, and
      “realised a fortune in twenty years.” He possessed, further, a
      taciturnity and solemnity; of depth, or else of dulness. How
      singular for Celadon Gibbon, false swain as he had proved; whose
      father, keeping most probably his own gig, “would not hear of
      such a union,”—to find now his forsaken Demoiselle Curchod
      sitting in the high places of the world, as Minister’s Madame,
      and “Necker not jealous!”[40]

      A new young Demoiselle, one day to be famed as a Madame and De
      Staël, was romping about the knees of the Decline and Fall: the
      lady Necker founds Hospitals; gives solemn Philosophe
      dinner-parties, to cheer her exhausted Controller-General.
      Strange things have happened: by clamour of Philosophism,
      management of Marquis de Pezay, and Poverty constraining even
      Kings. And so Necker, Atlas-like, sustains the burden of the
      Finances, for five years long?[41] Without wages, for he refused
      such; cheered only by Public Opinion, and the ministering of his
      noble Wife. With many thoughts in him, it is hoped;—which,
      however, he is shy of uttering. His _Compte Rendu_, published by
      the royal permission, fresh sign of a New Era, shows
      wonders;—which what but the genius of some Atlas-Necker can
      prevent from becoming portents? In Necker’s head too there is a
      whole pacific French Revolution, of its kind; and in that
      taciturn dull depth, or deep dulness, ambition enough.

      Meanwhile, alas, his Fotunatus’ Purse turns out to be little
      other than the old “_vectigal_ of Parsimony.” Nay, he too has to
      produce his scheme of taxing: Clergy, Noblesse to be taxed;
      Provincial Assemblies, and the rest,—like a mere Turgot! The
      expiring M. de Maurepas must gyrate one other time. Let Necker
      also depart; not unlamented.

      Great in a private station, Necker looks on from the distance;
      abiding his time. “Eighty thousand copies” of his new Book, which
      he calls _Administration des Finances_, will be sold in few days.
      He is gone; but shall return, and that more than once, borne by a
      whole shouting Nation. Singular Controller-General of the
      Finances; once Clerk in Thelusson’s Bank!


      Chapter 1.2.VI.
      Windbags.

      So marches the world, in this its Paper Age, or Era of Hope. Not
      without obstructions, war-explosions; which, however, heard from
      such distance, are little other than a cheerful marching-music.
      If indeed that dark living chaos of Ignorance and Hunger,
      five-and-twenty million strong, under your feet,—were to begin
      playing!

      For the present, however, consider Longchamp; now when Lent is
      ending, and the glory of Paris and France has gone forth, as in
      annual wont. Not to assist at _Tenebris_ Masses, but to sun
      itself and show itself, and salute the Young Spring.[42]
      Manifold, bright-tinted, glittering with gold; all through the
      Bois de Boulogne, in longdrawn variegated rows;—like longdrawn
      living flower-borders, tulips, dahlias, lilies of the valley; all
      in their moving flower-pots (of new-gilt carriages): pleasure of
      the eye, and pride of life! So rolls and dances the Procession:
      steady, of firm assurance, as if it rolled on adamant and the
      foundations of the world; not on mere heraldic parchment,—under
      which smoulders a lake of fire. Dance on, ye foolish ones; ye
      sought not wisdom, neither have ye found it. Ye and your fathers
      have sown the wind, ye shall reap the whirlwind. Was it not, from
      of old, written: _The wages of sin is death?_

      But at Longchamp, as elsewhere, we remark for one thing, that
      dame and cavalier are waited on each by a kind of human familiar,
      named _jokei._ Little elf, or imp; though young, already
      withered; with its withered air of premature vice, of
      knowingness, of completed elf-hood: useful in various
      emergencies. The name _jokei_ (jockey) comes from the English; as
      the thing also fancies that it does. Our Anglomania, in fact , is
      grown considerable; prophetic of much. If France is to be free,
      why shall she not, now when mad war is hushed, love neighbouring
      Freedom? Cultivated men, your Dukes de Liancourt, de la
      Rochefoucault admire the English Constitution, the English
      National Character; would import what of it they can.

      Of what is lighter, especially if it be light as wind, how much
      easier the freightage! Non-Admiral Duke de Chartres (not yet
      d’Orléans or Egalité) flies to and fro across the Strait;
      importing English Fashions; this he, as hand-and-glove with an
      English Prince of Wales, is surely qualified to do. Carriages and
      saddles; top-boots and _rédingotes_, as we call riding-coats. Nay
      the very mode of riding: for now no man on a level with his age
      but will trot _à l’Anglaise_, rising in the stirrups; scornful of
      the old sitfast method, in which, according to Shakspeare,
      “butter and eggs” go to market. Also, he can urge the fervid
      wheels, this brave Chartres of ours; no whip in Paris is rasher
      and surer than the unprofessional one of Monseigneur.

      Elf _jokeis_, we have seen; but see now real Yorkshire jockeys,
      and what they ride on, and train: English racers for French
      Races. These likewise we owe first (under the Providence of the
      Devil) to Monseigneur. Prince d’Artois also has his stud of
      racers. Prince d’Artois has withal the strangest horseleech: a
      moonstruck, much-enduring individual, of Neuchâtel in
      Switzerland,—named _Jean Paul Marat_. A problematic Chevalier
      d’Eon, now in petticoats, now in breeches, is no less problematic
      in London than in Paris; and causes bets and lawsuits. Beautiful
      days of international communion! Swindlery and Blackguardism have
      stretched hands across the Channel, and saluted mutually: on the
      racecourse of Vincennes or Sablons, behold in English
      curricle-and-four, wafted glorious among the principalities and
      rascalities, an English Dr. Dodd,[43]—for whom also the too early
      gallows gapes.

      Duke de Chartres was a young Prince of great promise, as young
      Princes often are; which promise unfortunately has belied itself.
      With the huge Orléans Property, with Duke de Penthievre for
      Father-in-law (and now the young Brother-in-law Lamballe killed
      by excesses),—he will one day be the richest man in France.
      Meanwhile, “his hair is all falling out, his blood is quite
      spoiled,”—by early transcendentalism of debauchery. Carbuncles
      stud his face; dark studs on a ground of burnished copper. A most
      signal failure, this young Prince! The stuff prematurely burnt
      out of him: little left but foul smoke and ashes of expiring
      sensualities: what might have been Thought, Insight, and even
      Conduct, gone now, or fast going,—to confused darkness, broken by
      bewildering dazzlements; to obstreperous crotchets; to activities
      which you may call semi-delirious, or even semi-galvanic! Paris
      affects to laugh at his charioteering; but he heeds not such
      laughter.

      On the other hand, what a day, not of laughter, was that, when he
      threatened, for lucre’s sake, to lay sacrilegious hand on the
      Palais-Royal Garden![44] The flower-parterres shall be riven up;
      the Chestnut Avenues shall fall: time-honoured boscages, under
      which the Opera Hamadryads were wont to wander, not inexorable to
      men. Paris moans aloud. Philidor, from his Café de la Regence,
      shall no longer look on greenness; the loungers and losels of the
      world, where now shall they haunt? In vain is moaning. The axe
      glitters; the sacred groves fall crashing,—for indeed Monseigneur
      was short of money: the Opera Hamadryads fly with shrieks. Shriek
      not, ye Opera Hamadryads; or not as those that have no comfort.
      He will surround your Garden with new edifices and piazzas:
      though narrowed, it shall be replanted; dizened with hydraulic
      jets, cannon which the sun fires at noon; things bodily, things
      spiritual, such as man has not imagined;—and in the Palais-Royal
      shall again, and more than ever, be the _Sorcerer’s Sabbath_ and
      _Satan-at-Home_ of our Planet.

      What will not mortals attempt? From remote Annonay in the
      Vivarais, the Brothers Montgolfier send up their paper-dome,
      filled with the smoke of burnt wool.[45] The Vivarais provincial
      assembly is to be prorogued this same day: Vivarais
      Assembly-members applaud, and the shouts of congregated men. Will
      victorious Analysis scale the very Heavens, then?

      Paris hears with eager wonder; Paris shall ere long see. From
      Reveilion’s Paper-warehouse there, in the Rue St. Antoine (a
      noted Warehouse),—the new Montgolfier air-ship launches itself.
      Ducks and poultry are borne skyward: but now shall men be
      borne.[46] Nay, Chemist Charles thinks of hydrogen and glazed
      silk. Chemist Charles will himself ascend, from the Tuileries
      Garden; Montgolfier solemnly cutting the cord. By Heaven, he also
      mounts, he and another? Ten times ten thousand hearts go
      palpitating; all tongues are mute with wonder and fear; till a
      shout, like the voice of seas, rolls after him, on his wild way.
      He soars, he dwindles upwards; has become a mere gleaming
      circlet,—like some Turgotine snuff-box, what we call “_Turgotine
      Platitude;_” like some new daylight Moon! Finally he descends;
      welcomed by the universe. Duchess Polignac, with a party, is in
      the Bois de Boulogne, waiting; though it is drizzly winter; the
      1st of December 1783. The whole chivalry of France, Duke de
      Chartres foremost, gallops to receive him.[47]

      Beautiful invention; mounting heavenward, so beautifully,—so
      unguidably! Emblem of much, and of our Age of Hope itself; which
      shall mount, specifically-light, majestically in this same
      manner; and hover,—tumbling whither Fate will. Well if it do not,
      Pilatre-like, explode; and demount all the more tragically!—So,
      riding on windbags, will men scale the Empyrean.

      Or observe Herr Doctor Mesmer, in his spacious Magnetic Halls.
      Long-stoled he walks; reverend, glancing upwards, as in rapt
      commerce; an Antique Egyptian Hierophant in this new age. Soft
      music flits; breaking fitfully the sacred stillness. Round their
      Magnetic Mystery, which to the eye is mere tubs with water,—sit
      breathless, rod in hand, the circles of Beauty and Fashion, each
      circle a living circular _Passion-Flower:_ expecting the magnetic
      afflatus, and new-manufactured Heaven-on-Earth. O women, O men,
      great is your infidel-faith! A Parlementary Duport, a Bergasse,
      D’Espréménil we notice there; Chemist Berthollet too,—on the part
      of Monseigneur de Chartres.

      Had not the Academy of Sciences, with its Baillys, Franklins,
      Lavoisiers, interfered! But it did interfere. (Lacretelle, 18me
      Siecle, iii.258.) Mesmer may pocket his hard money, and withdraw.
      Let him walk silent by the shore of the Bodensee, by the ancient
      town of Constance; meditating on much. For so, under the
      strangest new vesture, the old great truth (since no vesture can
      hide it) begins again to be revealed: That man is what we call a
      miraculous creature, with miraculous power over men; and, on the
      whole, with such a Life in him, and such a World round him, as
      victorious Analysis, with her Physiologies, Nervous-systems,
      Physic and Metaphysic, will never completely _name_, to say
      nothing of explaining. Wherein also the Quack shall, in all ages,
      come in for his share.[48]


      Chapter 1.2.VII.
      Contrat Social.

      In such succession of singular prismatic tints, flush after flush
      suffusing our horizon, does the Era of Hope dawn on towards
      fulfilment. Questionable! As indeed, with an Era of Hope that
      rests on mere universal Benevolence, victorious Analysis, Vice
      cured of its deformity; and, in the long run, on Twenty-five dark
      savage Millions, looking up, in hunger and weariness, to that
      _Ecce-signum_ of theirs “forty feet high,”—how could it but be
      questionable?

      Through all time, if we read aright, sin was, is, will be, the
      parent of misery. This land calls itself most Christian, and has
      crosses and cathedrals; but its High-priest is some Roche-Aymon,
      some Necklace-Cardinal Louis de Rohan. The voice of the poor,
      through long years, ascends inarticulate, in _Jacqueries_,
      meal-mobs; low-whimpering of infinite moan: unheeded of the
      Earth; not unheeded of Heaven. Always moreover where the Millions
      are wretched, there are the Thousands straitened, unhappy; only
      the Units can flourish; or say rather, be ruined the last.
      Industry, all noosed and haltered, as if it too were some beast
      of chase for the mighty hunters of this world to bait, and cut
      slices from,—cries passionately to these its well-paid guides and
      watchers, not, _Guide me;_ but, _Laissez faire,_ Leave me alone
      of _your_ guidance! What market has Industry in this France? For
      two things there may be market and demand: for the coarser kind
      of field-fruits, since the Millions will live: for the fine kinds
      of luxury and spicery,—of multiform taste, from opera-melodies
      down to racers and courtesans; since the Units will be amused. It
      is at bottom but a mad state of things.

      To mend and remake all which we have, indeed, victorious
      Analysis. Honour to victorious Analysis; nevertheless, out of the
      Workshop and Laboratory, what thing was victorious Analysis yet
      known to make? Detection of incoherences, mainly; destruction of
      the incoherent. From of old, Doubt was but half a magician; she
      evokes the spectres which she cannot quell. We shall have
      “endless vortices of froth-logic;” whereon first words, and then
      things, are whirled and swallowed. Remark, accordingly, as
      acknowledged grounds of Hope, at bottom mere precursors of
      Despair, this perpetual theorising about Man, the Mind of Man,
      Philosophy of Government, Progress of the Species and such-like;
      the main thinking furniture of every head. Time, and so many
      Montesquieus, Mablys, spokesmen of Time, have discovered
      innumerable things: and now has not Jean Jacques promulgated his
      new Evangel of a _Contrat Social;_ explaining the whole mystery
      of Government, and how it is _contracted_ and bargained for,—to
      universal satisfaction? Theories of Government! Such have been,
      and will be; in ages of decadence. Acknowledge them in their
      degree; as processes of Nature, who does nothing in vain; as
      steps in her great process. Meanwhile, what theory is so certain
      as this, That all theories, were they never so earnest, painfully
      elaborated, are, and, by the very conditions of them, must be
      incomplete, questionable, and even false? Thou shalt know that
      this Universe is, what it professes to be, an _infinite_ one.
      Attempt not to swallow _it_, for thy logical digestion; be
      thankful, if skilfully planting down this and the other fixed
      pillar in the chaos, thou prevent its swallowing _thee_. That a
      new young generation has exchanged the Sceptic Creed, _What shall
      I believe?_ for passionate Faith in this Gospel according to Jean
      Jacques is a further step in the business; and betokens much.

      Blessed also is Hope; and always from the beginning there was
      some Millennium prophesied; Millennium of Holiness; but (what is
      notable) never till this new Era, any Millennium of mere Ease and
      plentiful Supply. In such prophesied Lubberland, of Happiness,
      Benevolence, and Vice cured of its deformity, trust not, my
      friends! Man is not what one calls a happy animal; his appetite
      for sweet victual is so enormous. How, in this wild Universe,
      which storms in on him, infinite, vague-menacing, shall poor man
      find, say not happiness, but existence, and footing to stand on,
      if it be not by girding himself together for continual endeavour
      and endurance? Woe, if in his heart there dwelt no devout Faith;
      if the word Duty had lost its meaning for him! For as to this of
      Sentimentalism, so useful for weeping with over romances and on
      pathetic occasions, it otherwise verily will avail nothing; nay
      less. The healthy heart that said to itself, “How healthy am I!”
      was already fallen into the fatalest sort of disease. Is not
      Sentimentalism twin-sister to Cant, if not one and the same with
      it? Is not Cant the _materia prima_ of the Devil; from which all
      falsehoods, imbecilities, abominations body themselves; from
      which no true thing _can_ come? For Cant is itself properly a
      double-distilled Lie; the second-power of a Lie.

      And now if a whole Nation fall into that? In such case, I answer,
      infallibly they will return out of it! For life is no
      cunningly-devised deception or self-deception: it is a great
      truth that thou art alive, that thou hast desires, necessities;
      neither can these subsist and satisfy themselves on delusions,
      but on fact. To fact, depend on it, we shall come back: to such
      fact, blessed or cursed, as we have wisdom for. The lowest, least
      blessed fact one knows of, on which necessitous mortals have ever
      based themselves, seems to be the primitive one of Cannibalism:
      That _I_ can devour _Thee_. What if such Primitive Fact were
      precisely the one we had (with our improved methods) to revert
      to, and begin anew from!


      Chapter 1.2.VIII.
      Printed Paper.

      In such a practical France, let the theory of Perfectibility say
      what it will, discontents cannot be wanting: your promised
      Reformation is so indispensable; yet it comes not; who will begin
      it—with himself? Discontent with what is around us, still more
      with what is above us, goes on increasing; seeking ever new
      vents.

      Of Street Ballads, of Epigrams that from of old tempered
      Despotism, we need not speak. Nor of Manuscript Newspapers
      (_Nouvelles à la main_) do we speak. Bachaumont and his
      journeymen and followers may close those “thirty volumes of
      scurrilous eaves-dropping,” and quit that trade; for at length if
      not liberty of the Press, there is license. Pamphlets can be
      surreptititiously vended and read in Paris, did they even bear to
      be “Printed at Pekin.” We have a _Courrier de l’Europe_ in those
      years, regularly published at London; by a De Morande, whom the
      guillotine has not yet devoured. There too an unruly Linguet,
      still unguillotined, when his own country has become too hot for
      him, and his brother Advocates have cast him out, can emit his
      hoarse wailings, and _Bastille Dévoilée_ (Bastille unveiled).
      Loquacious Abbé Raynal, at length, has his wish; sees the
      _Histoire Philosophique,_ with its “lubricity,” unveracity, loose
      loud eleutheromaniac rant (contributed, they say, by
      Philosophedom at large, though in the Abbé’s name, and to his
      glory), burnt by the common hangman;—and sets out on his travels
      as a martyr. It was the edition of 1781; perhaps the last notable
      book that had such fire-beatitude,—the hangman discovering now
      that it did not serve.

      Again, in Courts of Law, with their money-quarrels,
      divorce-cases, wheresoever a glimpse into the household existence
      can be had, what indications! The Parlements of Besancon and Aix
      ring, audible to all France, with the amours and destinies of a
      young Mirabeau. He, under the nurture of a “Friend of Men,” has,
      in State Prisons, in marching Regiments, Dutch Authors” garrets,
      and quite other scenes, “been for twenty years learning to resist
      despotism:” despotism of men, and alas also of gods. How, beneath
      this rose-coloured veil of Universal Benevolence and _Astræa
      Redux_, is the sanctuary of Home so often a dreary void, or a
      dark contentious Hell-on-Earth! The old Friend of Men has his own
      divorce case too; and at times, “his whole family but one” under
      lock and key: he writes much about reforming and enfranchising
      the world; and for his own private behoof he has needed sixty
      _Lettres-de-Cachet_. A man of insight too, with resolution, even
      with manful principle: but in such an element, inward and
      outward; which he could not rule, but only madden. Edacity,
      rapacity;—quite contrary to the finer sensibilities of the heart!
      Fools, that expect your verdant Millennium, and nothing but Love
      and Abundance, brooks running wine, winds whispering music,—with
      the whole ground and basis of your existence champed into a mud
      of Sensuality; which, daily growing deeper, will soon have no
      bottom but the Abyss!

      Or consider that unutterable business of the Diamond Necklace.
      Red-hatted Cardinal Louis de Rohan; Sicilian jail-bird Balsamo
      Cagliostro; milliner Dame de Lamotte, “with a face of some
      piquancy:” the highest Church Dignitaries waltzing, in Walpurgis
      Dance, with quack-prophets, pickpurses and public women;—a whole
      Satan’s Invisible World displayed; working there continually
      under the daylight visible one; the smoke of its torment going up
      for ever! The Throne has been brought into scandalous collision
      with the Treadmill. Astonished Europe rings with the mystery for
      ten months; sees only lie unfold itself from lie; corruption
      among the lofty and the low, gulosity, credulity, imbecility,
      strength nowhere but in the hunger. Weep, fair Queen, thy first
      tears of unmixed wretchedness! Thy fair name has been tarnished
      by foul breath; irremediably while life lasts. No more shalt thou
      be loved and pitied by living hearts, till a new generation has
      been born, and thy own heart lies cold, cured of all its
      sorrows.—The Epigrams henceforth become, not sharp and bitter;
      but cruel, atrocious, unmentionable. On that 31st of May, 1786, a
      miserable Cardinal Grand-Almoner Rohan, on issuing from his
      Bastille, is escorted by hurrahing crowds: unloved he, and worthy
      of no love; but important since the Court and Queen are his
      enemies.[49]

      How is our bright Era of Hope dimmed: and the whole sky growing
      bleak with signs of hurricane and earthquake! It is a doomed
      world: gone all “obedience that made men free;” fast going the
      obedience that made men slaves,—at least to one another. Slaves
      only of their own lusts they now are, and will be. Slaves of sin;
      inevitably also of sorrow. Behold the mouldering mass of
      Sensuality and Falsehood; round which plays foolishly, itself a
      corrupt phosphorescence, some glimmer of Sentimentalism;—and over
      all, rising, as Ark of _their_ Covenant, the grim Patibulary Fork
      “forty feet high;” which also is now nigh rotted. Add only that
      the French Nation distinguishes itself among Nations by the
      characteristic of Excitability; with the good, but also with the
      perilous evil, which belongs to that. Rebellion, explosion, of
      unknown extent is to be calculated on. There are, as Chesterfield
      wrote, “all the symptoms I have ever met with in History!”

      Shall we say, then: Wo to Philosophism, that it destroyed
      Religion, what it called “extinguishing the abomination (_écraser
      l’infâme_)”? Wo rather to those that made the Holy an
      abomination, and extinguishable; wo at all men that live in such
      a time of world-abomination and world-destruction! Nay, answer
      the Courtiers, it was Turgot, it was Necker, with their mad
      innovating; it was the Queen’s want of etiquette; it was he, it
      was she, it was that. Friends! it was every scoundrel that had
      lived, and quack-like pretended to be doing, and been only eating
      and _mis_doing, in all provinces of life, as Shoeblack or as
      Sovereign Lord, each in his degree, from the time of Charlemagne
      and earlier. All this (for be sure no falsehood perishes, but is
      as seed sown out to grow) has been storing itself for thousands
      of years; and now the account-day has come. And rude will the
      settlement be: of wrath laid up against the day of wrath. O my
      Brother, be not thou a Quack! Die rather, if thou wilt take
      counsel; ’tis but dying once, and thou art quit of it for ever.
      Cursed is that trade; and bears curses, thou knowest not how,
      long ages after thou art departed, and the wages thou hadst are
      all consumed; nay, as the ancient wise have written,—through
      Eternity itself, and is verily marked in the Doom-Book of a God!

      Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. And yet, as we said, Hope is
      but deferred; not abolished, not abolishable. It is very notable,
      and touching, how this same Hope does still light onwards the
      French Nation through all its wild destinies. For we shall still
      find Hope shining, be it for fond invitation, be it for anger and
      menace; as a mild heavenly light it shone; as a red conflagration
      it shines: burning sulphurous blue, through darkest regions of
      Terror, it still shines; and goes sent out at all, since
      Desperation itself is a kind of Hope. Thus is our Era still to be
      named of Hope, though in the saddest sense,—when there is nothing
      left but Hope.

      But if any one would know summarily what a Pandora’s Box lies
      there for the opening, he may see it in what by its nature is the
      symptom of all symptoms, the surviving Literature of the Period.
      Abbé Raynal, with his lubricity and loud loose rant, has spoken
      _his_ word; and already the fast-hastening generation responds to
      another. Glance at Beaumarchais’ _Mariage de Figaro;_ which now
      (in 1784), after difficulty enough, has issued on the stage; and
      “runs its hundred nights,” to the admiration of all men. By what
      virtue or internal vigour it so ran, the reader of our day will
      rather wonder:—and indeed will know so much the better that it
      flattered some pruriency of the time; that it spoke what all were
      feeling, and longing to speak. Small substance in that _Figaro:_
      thin wiredrawn intrigues, thin wiredrawn sentiments and sarcasms;
      a thing lean, barren; yet which winds and whisks itself, as
      through a wholly mad universe, adroitly, with a high-sniffing
      air: wherein each, as was hinted, which is the grand secret, may
      see some image of himself, and of his own state and ways. So it
      runs its hundred nights, and all France runs with it; laughing
      applause. If the soliloquising Barber ask: ‘What has your
      Lordship done to earn all this?’ and can only answer: ‘You took
      the trouble to be born (_Vous vous êtes donné la peine de
      naître_),’ all men must laugh: and a gay horse-racing Anglomaniac
      Noblesse loudest of all. For how can small books have a great
      danger in them? asks the Sieur Caron; and fancies his thin
      epigram may be a kind of reason. Conqueror of a golden fleece, by
      giant smuggling; tamer of hell-dogs, in the Parlement Maupeou;
      and finally crowned Orpheus in the _Théâtre Français_,
      Beaumarchais has now culminated, and unites the attributes of
      several demigods. We shall meet him once again, in the course of
      his decline.

      Still more significant are two Books produced on the eve of the
      ever-memorable Explosion itself, and read eagerly by all the
      world: Saint-Pierre’s _Paul et Virginie_, and Louvet’s _Chevalier
      de Faublas_. Noteworthy Books; which may be considered as the
      last speech of old Feudal France. In the first there rises
      melodiously, as it were, the wail of a moribund world: everywhere
      wholesome Nature in unequal conflict with diseased perfidious
      Art; cannot escape from it in the lowest hut, in the remotest
      island of the sea. Ruin and death must strike down the loved one;
      and, what is most significant of all, death even here not by
      necessity, but by etiquette. What a world of prurient corruption
      lies visible in that super-sublime of modesty! Yet, on the whole,
      our good Saint-Pierre is musical, poetical though most morbid: we
      will call his Book the swan-song of old dying France.

      Louvet’s again, let no man account musical. Truly, if this
      wretched _Faublas_ is a death-speech, it is one under the
      gallows, and by a felon that does not repent. Wretched _cloaca_
      of a Book; without depth even as a cloaca! What “picture of
      French society” is here? Picture properly of nothing, if not of
      the mind that gave it out as some sort of picture. Yet symptom of
      much; above all, of the world that could nourish itself thereon.


      BOOK 1.III.
      THE PARLEMENT OF PARIS


      Chapter 1.3.I.
      Dishonoured Bills.

      While the unspeakable confusion is everywhere weltering within,
      and through so many cracks in the surface sulphur-smoke is
      issuing, the question arises: Through what crevice will the main
      Explosion carry itself? Through which of the old craters or
      chimneys; or must it, at once, form a new crater for itself? In
      every Society are such chimneys, are Institutions serving as
      such: even Constantinople is not without its safety-valves; there
      too Discontent can vent itself,—in material fire; by the number
      of nocturnal conflagrations, or of hanged bakers, the Reigning
      Power can read the signs of the times, and change course
      according to these.

      We may say that this French Explosion will doubtless first try
      all the old Institutions of escape; for by each of these there
      is, or at least there used to be, some communication with the
      interior deep; they are national Institutions in virtue of that.
      Had they even become personal Institutions, and what we can call
      choked up from their original uses, there nevertheless must the
      impediment be weaker than elsewhere. Through which of them then?
      An observer might have guessed: Through the Law Parlements; above
      all, through the Parlement of Paris.

      Men, though never so thickly clad in dignities, sit not
      inaccessible to the influences of their time; especially men
      whose life is business; who at all turns, were it even from
      behind judgment-seats, have come in contact with the actual
      workings of the world. The Counsellor of Parlement, the President
      himself, who has bought his place with hard money that he might
      be looked up to by his fellow-creatures, how shall he, in all
      Philosophe-soirées, and saloons of elegant culture, become
      notable as a Friend of Darkness? Among the Paris Long-robes there
      may be more than one patriotic Malesherbes, whose rule is
      conscience and the public good; there are clearly more than one
      hotheaded D’Espréménil, to whose confused thought any loud
      reputation of the Brutus sort may seem glorious. The
      Lepelletiers, Lamoignons have titles and wealth; yet, at Court,
      are only styled “Noblesse of the Robe.” There are Duports of deep
      scheme; Fréteaus, Sabatiers, of incontinent tongue: all nursed
      more or less on the milk of the _Contrat Social_. Nay, for the
      whole Body, is not this patriotic opposition also a fighting for
      oneself? Awake, Parlement of Paris, renew thy long warfare! Was
      not the Parlement Maupeou abolished with ignominy? Not now hast
      thou to dread a Louis XIV., with the crack of his whip, and his
      Olympian looks; not now a Richelieu and Bastilles: no, the whole
      Nation is behind thee. Thou too (O heavens!) mayest become a
      Political Power; and with the shakings of thy horse-hair wig
      shake principalities and dynasties, like a very Jove with his
      ambrosial curls!

      Light old M. de Maurepas, since the end of 1781, has been fixed
      in the frost of death: ‘Never more,’ said the good Louis, ‘shall
      I hear his step overhead;’ his light jestings and gyratings are
      at an end. No more can the importunate reality be hidden by
      pleasant wit, and today’s evil be deftly rolled over upon
      tomorrow. The morrow itself has arrived; and now nothing but a
      solid phlegmatic M. de Vergennes sits there, in dull matter of
      fact, like some dull punctual Clerk (which he originally was);
      admits what cannot be denied, let the remedy come whence it will.
      In him is no remedy; only clerklike “despatch of business”
      according to routine. The poor King, grown older yet hardly more
      experienced, must himself, with such no-faculty as he has, begin
      governing; wherein also his Queen will give help. Bright Queen,
      with her quick clear glances and impulses; clear, and even noble;
      but all too superficial, vehement-shallow, for that work! To
      govern France were such a problem; and now it has grown well-nigh
      too hard to govern even the Œil-de-Bœuf. For if a distressed
      People has its cry, so likewise, and more audibly, has a bereaved
      Court. To the Œil-de-Bœuf it remains inconceivable how, in a
      France of such resources, the Horn of Plenty should run dry: did
      it not _use_ to flow? Nevertheless Necker, with his revenue of
      parsimony, has “suppressed above six hundred places,” before the
      Courtiers could oust him; parsimonious finance-pedant as he was.
      Again, a military pedant, Saint-Germain, with his Prussian
      manœuvres; with his Prussian notions, as if merit and not
      coat-of-arms should be the rule of promotion, has disaffected
      military men; the Mousquetaires, with much else are suppressed:
      for he too was one of your suppressors; and unsettling and
      oversetting, did mere mischief—to the Œil-de-Bœuf. Complaints
      abound; scarcity, anxiety: it is a changed Œil-de-Bœuf. Besenval
      says, already in these years (1781) there was such a melancholy
      (such a _tristesse_) about Court, compared with former days, as
      made it quite dispiriting to look upon.

      No wonder that the Œil-de-Bœuf feels melancholy, when you are
      suppressing its places! Not a place can be suppressed, but some
      purse is the lighter for it; and more than one heart the heavier;
      for did it not employ the working-classes too,—manufacturers,
      male and female, of laces, essences; of Pleasure generally,
      whosoever could manufacture Pleasure? Miserable economies; never
      felt over Twenty-five Millions! So, however, it goes on: and is
      not yet ended. Few years more and the Wolf-hounds shall fall
      suppressed, the Bear-hounds, the Falconry; places shall fall,
      thick as autumnal leaves. Duke de Polignac demonstrates, to the
      complete silencing of ministerial logic, that his place cannot be
      abolished; then gallantly, turning to the Queen, surrenders it,
      since her Majesty so wishes. Less chivalrous was Duke de Coigny,
      and yet not luckier: ‘We got into a real quarrel, Coigny and I,’
      said King Louis; ‘but if he had even struck me, I could not have
      blamed him.’[50] In regard to such matters there can be but one
      opinion. Baron Besenval, with that frankness of speech which
      stamps the independent man, plainly assures her Majesty that it
      is frightful (_affreux_); ‘you go to bed, and are not sure but
      you shall rise impoverished on the morrow: one might as well be
      in Turkey.’ It is indeed a dog’s life.

      How singular this perpetual distress of the royal treasury! And
      yet it is a thing not more incredible than undeniable. A thing
      mournfully true: the stumbling-block on which all Ministers
      successively stumble, and fall. Be it “want of fiscal genius,” or
      some far other want, there is the palpablest discrepancy between
      Revenue and Expenditure; a _Deficit_ of the Revenue: you must
      “choke (_combler_) the Deficit,” or else it will swallow you!
      This is the stern problem; hopeless seemingly as squaring of the
      circle. Controller Joly de Fleury, who succeeded Necker, could do
      nothing with it; nothing but propose loans, which were tardily
      filled up; impose new taxes, unproductive of money, productive of
      clamour and discontent. As little could Controller d’Ormesson do,
      or even less; for if Joly maintained himself beyond year and day,
      d’Ormesson reckons only by months: till “the King purchased
      Rambouillet without consulting him,” which he took as a hint to
      withdraw. And so, towards the end of 1783, matters threaten to
      come to still-stand. Vain seems human ingenuity. In vain has our
      newly-devised “Council of Finances” struggled, our Intendants of
      Finance, Controller-General of Finances: there are unhappily no
      Finances to control. Fatal paralysis invades the social movement;
      clouds, of blindness or of blackness, envelop us: are we breaking
      down, then, into the black horrors of NATIONAL BANKRUPTCY?

      Great is Bankruptcy: the great bottomless gulf into which all
      Falsehoods, public and private, do sink, disappearing; whither,
      from the first origin of them, they were all doomed. For Nature
      is true and not a lie. No lie you can speak or act but it will
      come, after longer or shorter circulation, like a Bill drawn on
      Nature’s Reality, and be presented there for payment,—with the
      answer, _No effects_. Pity only that it often had so long a
      circulation: that the original forger were so seldom he who bore
      the final smart of it! Lies, and the burden of evil they bring,
      are passed on; shifted from back to back, and from rank to rank;
      and so land ultimately on the dumb lowest rank, who with spade
      and mattock, with sore heart and empty wallet, daily come in
      _contact_ with reality, and can pass the cheat no further.

      Observe nevertheless how, by a just compensating law, if the lie
      with its burden (in this confused whirlpool of Society) sinks and
      is shifted ever downwards, then in return the distress of it
      rises ever upwards and upwards. Whereby, after the long pining
      and demi-starvation of those Twenty Millions, a Duke de Coigny
      and his Majesty come also to have their “real quarrel.” Such is
      the law of just Nature; bringing, though at long intervals, and
      were it only by Bankruptcy, matters round again to the mark.

      But with a Fortunatus’ Purse in his pocket, through what length
      of time might not almost any Falsehood last! Your Society, your
      Household, practical or spiritual Arrangement, is untrue, unjust,
      offensive to the eye of God and man. Nevertheless its hearth is
      warm, its larder well replenished: the innumerable Swiss of
      Heaven, with a kind of Natural loyalty, gather round it; will
      prove, by pamphleteering, musketeering, that it is a truth; or if
      not an unmixed (unearthly, impossible) Truth, then better, a
      wholesomely attempered one, (as wind is to the shorn lamb), and
      works well. Changed outlook, however, when purse and larder grow
      empty! Was your Arrangement so true, so accordant to Nature’s
      ways, then how, in the name of wonder, has Nature, with her
      infinite bounty, come to leave it famishing there? To all men, to
      all women and all children, it is now indutiable that your
      Arrangement was _false_. Honour to Bankruptcy; ever righteous on
      the great scale, though in detail it is so cruel! Under all
      Falsehoods it works, unweariedly mining. No Falsehood, did it
      rise heaven-high and cover the world, but Bankruptcy, one day,
      will sweep it down, and make us free of it.


      Chapter 1.3.II.
      Controller Calonne.

      Under such circumstances of _tristesse_, obstruction and sick
      langour, when to an exasperated Court it seems as if fiscal
      genius had departed from among men, what apparition could be
      welcomer than that of M. de Calonne? Calonne, a man of
      indisputable genius; even fiscal genius, more or less; of
      experience both in managing Finance and Parlements, for he has
      been Intendant at Metz, at Lille; King’s Procureur at Douai. A
      man of weight, connected with the moneyed classes; of unstained
      name,—if it were not some peccadillo (of showing a Client’s
      Letter) in that old D’Aiguillon-Lachalotais business, as good as
      forgotten now. He has kinsmen of heavy purse, felt on the Stock
      Exchange. Our Foulons, Berthiers intrigue for him:—old Foulon,
      who has now nothing to do but intrigue; who is known and even
      seen to be what they call a scoundrel; but of unmeasured wealth;
      who, from Commissariat-clerk which he once was, may hope, some
      think, if the game go right, to be Minister himself one day.

      Such propping and backing has M. de Calonne; and then
      intrinsically such qualities! Hope radiates from his face;
      persuasion hangs on his tongue. For all straits he has present
      remedy, and will make the world roll on wheels before him. On the
      3d of November 1783, the Œil-de-Bœuf rejoices in its new
      Controller-General. Calonne also shall have trial; Calonne also,
      in his way, as Turgot and Necker had done in theirs, shall
      forward the consummation; suffuse, with one other flush of
      brilliancy, our now too leaden-coloured Era of Hope, and wind it
      up—into fulfilment.

      Great, in any case, is the felicity of the Œil-de-Bœuf.
      Stinginess has fled from these royal abodes: suppression ceases;
      your Besenval may go peaceably to sleep, sure that he shall awake
      unplundered. Smiling Plenty, as if conjured by some enchanter,
      has returned; scatters contentment from her new-flowing horn. And
      mark what suavity of manners! A bland smile distinguishes our
      Controller: to all men he listens with an air of interest, nay of
      anticipation; makes their own wish clear to themselves, and
      grants it; or at least, grants conditional promise of it. ‘I fear
      this is a matter of difficulty,’ said her Majesty.—‘Madame,’
      answered the Controller, ‘if it is but difficult, it is done, if
      it is impossible, it shall be done (_se fera_).’ A man of such
      “facility” withal. To observe him in the pleasure-vortex of
      society, which none partakes of with more gusto, you might ask,
      When does he work? And yet his work, as we see, is never
      behindhand; above all, the fruit of his work: ready-money. Truly
      a man of incredible facility; facile action, facile elocution,
      facile thought: how, in mild suasion, philosophic depth sparkles
      up from him, as mere wit and lambent sprightliness; and in her
      Majesty’s Soirees, with the weight of a world lying on him, he is
      the delight of men and women! By what magic does he accomplish
      miracles? By the only true magic, that of genius. Men name him
      “_the_ Minister;” as indeed, when was there another such? Crooked
      things are become straight by him, rough places plain; and over
      the Œil-de-Bœuf there rests an unspeakable sunshine.

      Nay, in seriousness, let no man say that Calonne had not genius:
      genius for Persuading; before all things, for Borrowing. With the
      skilfulest judicious appliances of underhand money, he keeps the
      Stock-Exchanges flourishing; so that Loan after Loan is filled up
      as soon as opened. “Calculators likely to know”[51] have
      calculated that he spent, in extraordinaries, “at the rate of one
      million daily;” which indeed is some fifty thousand pounds
      sterling: but did he not procure something with it; namely peace
      and prosperity, for the time being? Philosophedom grumbles and
      croaks; buys, as we said, 80,000 copies of Necker’s new Book: but
      Nonpareil Calonne, in her Majesty’s Apartment, with the
      glittering retinue of Dukes, Duchesses, and mere happy admiring
      faces, can let Necker and Philosophedom croak.

      The misery is, such a time cannot last! Squandering, and Payment
      by Loan is no way to choke a Deficit. Neither is oil the
      substance for quenching conflagrations;—but, only for assuaging
      them, _not_ permanently! To the Nonpareil himself, who wanted not
      insight, it is clear at intervals, and dimly certain at all
      times, that his trade is by nature temporary, growing daily more
      difficult; that changes incalculable lie at no great distance.
      Apart from financial Deficit, the world is wholly in such a
      new-fangled humour; all things working loose from their old
      fastenings, towards new issues and combinations. There is not a
      dwarf _jokei_, a cropt Brutus’-head, or Anglomaniac horseman
      rising on his stirrups, that does not betoken change. But what
      then? The day, in any case, passes pleasantly; for the morrow, if
      the morrow come, there shall be counsel too. Once mounted (by
      munificence, suasion, magic of genius) high enough in favour with
      the Œil-de-Bœuf, with the King, Queen, Stock-Exchange, and so far
      as possible with all men, a Nonpareil Controller may hope to go
      careering through the Inevitable, in some unimagined way, as
      handsomely as another.

      At all events, for these three miraculous years, it has been
      expedient heaped on expedient; till now, with such cumulation and
      height, the pile topples perilous. And here has this
      world’s-wonder of a Diamond Necklace brought it at last to the
      clear verge of tumbling. Genius in that direction can no more:
      mounted high enough, or not mounted, we must fare forth. Hardly
      is poor Rohan, the Necklace-Cardinal, safely bestowed in the
      Auvergne Mountains, Dame de Lamotte (unsafely) in the
      Salpêtrière, and that mournful business hushed up, when our
      sanguine Controller once more astonishes the world. An expedient,
      unheard of for these hundred and sixty years, has been
      propounded; and, by dint of suasion (for his light audacity, his
      hope and eloquence are matchless) has been got
      adopted,—_Convocation of the Notables._

      Let notable persons, the actual or virtual rulers of their
      districts, be summoned from all sides of France: let a true tale,
      of his Majesty’s patriotic purposes and wretched pecuniary
      impossibilities, be suasively told them; and then the question
      put: What are we to do? Surely to adopt healing measures; such as
      the magic of genius will unfold; such as, once sanctioned by
      Notables, all Parlements and all men must, with more or less
      reluctance, submit to.


      Chapter 1.3.III.
      The Notables.

      Here, then is verily a sign and wonder; visible to the whole
      world; bodeful of much. The Œil-de-Bœuf dolorously grumbles; were
      we not well as we stood,—quenching conflagrations by oil?
      Constitutional Philosophedom starts with joyful surprise; stares
      eagerly what the result will be. The public creditor, the public
      debtor, the whole thinking and thoughtless public have their
      several surprises, joyful and sorrowful. Count Mirabeau, who has
      got his matrimonial and other Lawsuits huddled up, better or
      worse; and works now in the dimmest element at Berlin; compiling
      _Prussian Monarchies_, Pamphlets _On Cagliostro;_ writing, with
      pay, but not with honourable recognition, innumerable Despatches
      for his Government,—scents or descries richer quarry from afar.
      He, like an eagle or vulture, or mixture of both, preens his
      wings for flight homewards.[52]

      M. de Calonne has stretched out an Aaron’s Rod over France;
      miraculous; and is summoning quite unexpected things. Audacity
      and hope alternate in him with misgivings; though the
      sanguine-valiant side carries it. Anon he writes to an intimate
      friend, ‘_Je me fais pitié à moi-même_ (I am an object of pity to
      myself);’ anon, invites some dedicating Poet or Poetaster to sing
      “this Assembly of the Notables and the Revolution that is
      preparing.”[53] Preparing indeed; and a matter to be sung,—only
      not till we have _seen_ it, and what the issue of it is. In deep
      obscure unrest, all things have so long gone rocking and swaying:
      will M. de Calonne, with this his alchemy of the Notables, fasten
      all together again, and get new revenues? Or wrench all asunder;
      so that it go no longer rocking and swaying, but clashing and
      colliding?

      Be this as it may, in the bleak short days, we behold men of
      weight and influence threading the great vortex of French
      Locomotion, each on his several line, from all sides of France
      towards the Château of Versailles: summoned thither _de par le
      roi_. There, on the 22d day of February 1787, they have met, and
      got installed: Notables to the number of a Hundred and
      Thirty-seven, as we count them name by name:[54] add Seven
      Princes of the Blood, it makes the round Gross of Notables. Men
      of the sword, men of the robe; Peers, dignified Clergy,
      Parlementary Presidents: divided into Seven Boards (_Bureaux_);
      under our Seven Princes of the Blood, Monsieur, D’Artois,
      Penthievre, and the rest; among whom let not our new Duke
      d’Orléans (for, since 1785, he is Chartres no longer) be
      forgotten. Never yet made Admiral, and now turning the corner of
      his fortieth year, with spoiled blood and prospects; half-weary
      of a world which is more than half-weary of him, Monseigneur’s
      future is most questionable. Not in illumination and insight, not
      even in conflagration; but, as was said, “in dull smoke and ashes
      of outburnt sensualities,” does he live and digest. Sumptuosity
      and sordidness; revenge, life-weariness, ambition, darkness,
      putrescence; and, say, in sterling money, three hundred thousand
      a year,—were this poor Prince once to burst loose from his
      Court-moorings, to what regions, with what phenomena, might he
      not sail and drift! Happily as yet he “affects to hunt daily;”
      sits there, since he must sit, presiding that Bureau of his, with
      dull moon-visage, dull glassy eyes, as if it were a mere tedium
      to him.

      We observe finally, that Count Mirabeau has actually arrived. He
      descends from Berlin, on the scene of action; glares into it with
      flashing sun-glance; discerns that it will do nothing for him. He
      had hoped these Notables might need a Secretary. They do need
      one; but have fixed on Dupont de Nemours; a man of smaller fame,
      but then of better;—who indeed, as his friends often hear,
      labours under this complaint, surely not a universal one, of
      having “five kings to correspond with.”[55] The pen of a Mirabeau
      cannot become an official one; nevertheless it remains a pen. In
      defect of Secretaryship, he sets to denouncing Stock-brokerage
      (_Dénonciation de l’Agiotage_); testifying, as his wont is, by
      loud bruit, that he is present and busy;—till, warned by friend
      Talleyrand, and even by Calonne himself underhand, that “a
      seventeenth _Lettre-de-Cachet_ may be launched against him,” he
      timefully flits over the marches.

      And now, in stately royal apartments, as Pictures of that time
      still represent them, our hundred and forty-four Notables sit
      organised; ready to hear and consider. Controller Calonne is
      dreadfully behindhand with his speeches, his preparatives;
      however, the man’s “facility of work” is known to us. For
      freshness of style, lucidity, ingenuity, largeness of view, that
      opening Harangue of his was unsurpassable:—had not the
      subject-matter been so appalling. A Deficit, concerning which
      accounts vary, and the Controller’s own account is not
      unquestioned; but which all accounts agree in representing as
      “enormous.” This is the epitome of our Controller’s difficulties:
      and then his means? Mere Turgotism; for thither, it seems, we
      must come at last: Provincial Assemblies; new Taxation; nay,
      strangest of all, new Land-tax, what he calls _Subvention
      Territoriale_, from which neither Privileged nor Unprivileged,
      Noblemen, Clergy, nor Parlementeers, shall be exempt!

      Foolish enough! These Privileged Classes have been used to tax;
      levying toll, tribute and custom, at all hands, while a penny was
      left: but to be themselves taxed? Of such Privileged persons,
      meanwhile, do these Notables, all but the merest fraction,
      consist. Headlong Calonne had given no heed to the “composition,”
      or judicious packing of them; but chosen such Notables as were
      really notable; trusting for the issue to off-hand ingenuity,
      good fortune, and eloquence that never yet failed. Headlong
      Controller-General! Eloquence can do much, but not all. Orpheus,
      with eloquence grown rhythmic, musical (what we call Poetry),
      drew iron tears from the cheek of Pluto: but by what witchery of
      rhyme or prose wilt thou from the pocket of Plutus draw gold?

      Accordingly, the storm that now rose and began to whistle round
      Calonne, first in these Seven Bureaus, and then on the outside of
      them, awakened by them, spreading wider and wider over all
      France, threatens to become unappeasable. A Deficit so enormous!
      Mismanagement, profusion is too clear. Peculation itself is
      hinted at; nay, Lafayette and others go so far as to speak it
      out, with attempts at proof. The blame of his Deficit our brave
      Calonne, as was natural, had endeavoured to shift from himself on
      his predecessors; not excepting even Necker. But now Necker
      vehemently denies; whereupon an “angry Correspondence,” which
      also finds its way into print.

      In the Œil-de-Bœuf, and her Majesty’s private Apartments, an
      eloquent Controller, with his ‘Madame, if it is but difficult,’
      had been persuasive: but, alas, the cause is now carried
      elsewhither. Behold him, one of these sad days, in Monsieur’s
      Bureau; to which all the other Bureaus have sent deputies. He is
      standing at bay: alone; exposed to an incessant fire of
      questions, interpellations, objurgations, from those “hundred and
      thirty-seven” pieces of logic-ordnance,—what we may well call
      _bouches à feu_, fire-mouths literally! Never, according to
      Besenval, or hardly ever, had such display of intellect,
      dexterity, coolness, suasive eloquence, been made by man. To the
      raging play of so many fire-mouths he opposes nothing angrier
      than light-beams, self-possession and fatherly smiles. With the
      imperturbablest bland clearness, he, for five hours long, keeps
      answering the incessant volley of fiery captious questions,
      reproachful interpellations; in words prompt as lightning, quiet
      as light. Nay, the cross-fire too: such side questions and
      incidental interpellations as, in the heat of the main-battle, he
      (having only one tongue) could not get answered; these also he
      takes up at the first slake; answers even these.[56] Could
      blandest suasive eloquence have saved France, she were saved.

      Heavy-laden Controller! In the Seven Bureaus seems nothing but
      hindrance: in Monsieur’s Bureau, a Loménie de Brienne, Archbishop
      of Toulouse, with an eye himself to the Controllership, stirs up
      the Clergy; there are meetings, underground intrigues. Neither
      from without anywhere comes sign of help or hope. For the Nation
      (where Mirabeau is now, with stentor-lungs, “denouncing Agio”)
      the Controller has hitherto done nothing, or less. For
      Philosophedom he has done as good as nothing,—sent out some
      scientific Lapérouse, or the like: and is he not in “angry
      correspondence” with its Necker? The very Œil-de-Bœuf looks
      questionable; a falling Controller has no friends. Solid M. de
      Vergennes, who with his phlegmatic judicious punctuality might
      have kept down many things, died the very week before these
      sorrowful Notables met. And now a Seal-keeper, _Garde-des-Sceaux_
      Miroménil is thought to be playing the traitor: spinning plots
      for Loménie-Brienne! Queen’s-Reader Abbé de Vermond, unloved
      individual, was Brienne’s creature, the work of his hands from
      the first: it may be feared the backstairs passage is open,
      ground getting mined under our feet. Treacherous Garde-des-Sceaux
      Miroménil, at least, should be dismissed; Lamoignon, the eloquent
      Notable, a stanch man, with connections, and even ideas,
      Parlement-President yet intent on reforming Parlements, were not
      he the right Keeper? So, for one, thinks busy Besenval; and, at
      dinner-table, rounds the same into the Controller’s ear,—who
      always, in the intervals of landlord-duties, listens to him as
      with charmed look, but answers nothing positive.[57]

      Alas, what to answer? The force of private intrigue, and then
      also the force of public opinion, grows so dangerous, confused!
      Philosophedom sneers aloud, as if its Necker already triumphed.
      The gaping populace gapes over Wood-cuts or Copper-cuts; where,
      for example, a Rustic is represented convoking the poultry of his
      barnyard, with this opening address: ‘Dear animals, I have
      assembled you to advise me what sauce I shall dress you with;’ to
      which a Cock responding, ‘We don’t want to be eaten,’ is checked
      by ‘You wander from the point (_Vous vous écartez de la
      question_).’[58] Laughter and logic; ballad-singer, pamphleteer;
      epigram and caricature: what wind of public opinion is this,—as
      if the Cave of the Winds were bursting loose! At nightfall,
      President Lamoignon steals over to the Controller’s; finds him
      “walking with large strides in his chamber, like one out of
      himself.”[59] With rapid confused speech the Controller begs M.
      de Lamoignon to give him “an advice.” Lamoignon candidly answers
      that, except in regard to his own anticipated Keepership, unless
      that would prove remedial, he really cannot take upon him to
      advise.

      “On the Monday after Easter,” the 9th of April 1787, a date one
      rejoices to verify, for nothing can excel the indolent falsehood
      of these _Histoires and Mémoires_,—“On the Monday after Easter,
      as I, Besenval, was riding towards Romainville to the Maréchal de
      Segur’s, I met a friend on the Boulevards, who told me that M. de
      Calonne was out. A little further on came M. the Duke d’Orléans,
      dashing towards me, head to the wind” (trotting _à l’Anglaise_),
      “and confirmed the news.”[60] It is true news. Treacherous
      Garde-des-Sceaux Miroménil is gone, and Lamoignon is appointed in
      his room: but appointed for his own profit only, not for the
      Controller’s: “next day” the Controller also has had to move. A
      little longer he may linger near; be seen among the money
      changers, and even “working in the Controller’s office,” where
      much lies unfinished: but neither will that hold. Too strong
      blows and beats this tempest of public opinion, of private
      intrigue, as from the Cave of all the Winds; and blows him
      (higher Authority giving sign) out of Paris and France,—over the
      horizon, into Invisibility, or outer Darkness.

      Such destiny the magic of genius could not forever avert.
      Ungrateful Œil-de-Bœuf! did he not miraculously rain gold manna
      on you; so that, as a Courtier said, ‘All the world held out its
      hand, and I held out my hat,’—for a time? Himself is poor;
      penniless, had not a “Financier’s widow in Lorraine” offered him,
      though he was turned of fifty, her hand and the rich purse it
      held. Dim henceforth shall be his activity, though unwearied:
      Letters to the King, Appeals, Prognostications; Pamphlets (from
      London), written with the old suasive facility; which however do
      not persuade. Luckily his widow’s purse fails not. Once, in a
      year or two, some shadow of him shall be seen hovering on the
      Northern Border, seeking election as National Deputy; but be
      sternly beckoned away. Dimmer then, far-borne over utmost
      European lands, in uncertain twilight of diplomacy, he shall
      hover, intriguing for “Exiled Princes,” and have adventures; be
      overset into the Rhine stream and half-drowned, nevertheless save
      his papers dry. Unwearied, but in vain! In France he works
      miracles no more; shall hardly return thither to find a grave.
      Farewell, thou facile sanguine Controller-General, with thy light
      rash hand, thy suasive mouth of gold: worse men there have been,
      and better; but to thee also was allotted a task,—of raising the
      wind, and the winds; and thou hast done it.

      But now, while Ex-Controller Calonne flies storm-driven over the
      horizon, in this singular way, what has become of the
      Controllership? It hangs vacant, one may say; extinct, like the
      Moon in her vacant interlunar cave. Two preliminary shadows, poor
      M. Fourqueux, poor M. Villedeuil, do hold in quick succession
      some simulacrum of it,[61]—as the new Moon will sometimes shine
      out with a dim preliminary old one in her arms. Be patient, ye
      Notables! An actual new Controller is certain, and even ready;
      were the indispensable manœuvres but gone through. Long-headed
      Lamoignon, with Home Secretary Bréteuil, and Foreign Secretary
      Montmorin have exchanged looks; let these three once meet and
      speak. Who is it that is strong in the Queen’s favour, and the
      Abbé de Vermond’s? That is a man of great capacity? Or at least
      that has struggled, these fifty years, to have it thought great;
      now, in the Clergy’s name, demanding to have Protestant
      death-penalties “put in execution;” no flaunting it in the
      Œil-de-Bœuf, as the gayest man-pleaser and woman-pleaser;
      gleaning even a good word from Philosophedom and your Voltaires
      and D’Alemberts? With a party ready-made for him in the
      Notables?—Loménie de Brienne, Archbishop of Toulouse! answer all
      the three, with the clearest instantaneous concord; and rush off
      to propose him to the King; “in such haste,” says Besenval, “that
      M. de Lamoignon had to borrow a _simarre_,” seemingly some kind
      of cloth apparatus necessary for that.[62]

      Loménie-Brienne, who had all his life “felt a kind of
      predestination for the highest offices,” has now therefore
      obtained them. He presides over the Finances; he shall have the
      title of Prime Minister itself, and the effort of his long life
      be realised. Unhappy only that it took such talent and industry
      to _gain_ the place; that to _qualify_ for it hardly any talent
      or industry was left disposable! Looking now into his inner man,
      what qualification he may have, Loménie beholds, not without
      astonishment, next to nothing but vacuity and possibility.
      Principles or methods, acquirement outward or inward (for his
      very body is wasted, by hard tear and wear) he finds none; not so
      much as a plan, even an unwise one. Lucky, in these
      circumstances, that Calonne has had a plan! Calonne’s plan was
      gathered from Turgot’s and Necker’s by compilation; shall become
      Loménie’s by adoption. Not in vain has Loménie studied the
      working of the British Constitution; for he professes to have
      some Anglomania, of a sort. Why, in that free country, does one
      Minister, driven out by Parliament, vanish from his King’s
      presence, and another enter, borne in by Parliament?[63] Surely
      not for mere change (which is ever wasteful); but that all men
      may have share of what is going; and so the strife of Freedom
      indefinitely prolong itself, and no harm be done.

      The Notables, mollified by Easter festivities, by the sacrifice
      of Calonne, are not in the worst humour. Already his Majesty,
      while the “interlunar shadows” were in office, had held session
      of Notables; and from his throne delivered promissory
      conciliatory eloquence: “The Queen stood waiting at a window,
      till his carriage came back; and Monsieur from afar clapped hands
      to her,” in sign that all was well.[64] It has had the best
      effect; if such do but last. Leading Notables meanwhile can be
      “caressed;” Brienne’s new gloss, Lamoignon’s long head will
      profit somewhat; conciliatory eloquence shall not be wanting. On
      the whole, however, is it not undeniable that this of ousting
      Calonne and adopting the plans of Calonne, is a measure which, to
      produce its best effect, should be looked at from a certain
      distance, cursorily; not dwelt on with minute near scrutiny. In a
      word, that no service the Notables could now do were so obliging
      as, in some handsome manner, to—take themselves away! Their “Six
      Propositions” about Provisional Assemblies, suppression of
      _Corvées_ and suchlike, can be accepted without criticism. The
      _Subvention_ on Land-tax, and much else, one must glide hastily
      over; safe nowhere but in flourishes of conciliatory eloquence.
      Till at length, on this 25th of May, year 1787, in solemn final
      session, there bursts forth what we can call an explosion of
      eloquence; King, Loménie, Lamoignon and retinue taking up the
      successive strain; in harrangues to the number of ten, besides
      his Majesty’s, which last the livelong day;—whereby, as in a kind
      of choral anthem, or bravura peal, of thanks, praises, promises,
      the Notables are, so to speak, organed out, and dismissed to
      their respective places of abode. They had sat, and talked, some
      nine weeks: they were the first Notables since Richelieu’s, in
      the year 1626.

      By some Historians, sitting much at their ease, in the safe
      distance, Loménie has been blamed for this dismissal of his
      Notables: nevertheless it was clearly time. There are things, as
      we said, which should not be dwelt on with minute close scrutiny:
      over hot coals you cannot glide too fast. In these Seven Bureaus,
      where no work could be done, unless talk were work, the
      questionablest matters were coming up. Lafayette, for example, in
      Monseigneur d’Artois’ Bureau, took upon him to set forth more
      than one deprecatory oration about _Lettres-de-Cachet_, Liberty
      of the Subject, _Agio_, and suchlike; which Monseigneur
      endeavouring to repress, was answered that a Notable being
      summoned to speak his opinion must speak it.[65]

      Thus too his Grace the Archbishop of Aix perorating once, with a
      plaintive pulpit tone, in these words? ‘Tithe, that free-will
      offering of the piety of Christians’—‘Tithe,’ interrupted Duke la
      Rochefoucault, with the cold business-manner he has learned from
      the English, ‘that free-will offering of the piety of Christians;
      on which there are now forty-thousand lawsuits in this
      realm.’[66] Nay, Lafayette, bound to speak his opinion, went the
      length, one day, of proposing to convoke a “National Assembly.”
      ‘You demand States-General?’ asked Monseigneur with an air of
      minatory surprise.—‘Yes, Monseigneur; and even better than
      that.’—‘Write it,’ said Monseigneur to the Clerks.[67]—Written
      accordingly it is; and what is more, will be acted by and by.


      Chapter 1.3.IV.
      Loménie’s Edicts.

      Thus, then, have the Notables returned home; carrying to all
      quarters of France, such notions of deficit, decrepitude,
      distraction; and that States-General will cure it, or will not
      cure it but kill it. Each Notable, we may fancy, is as a funeral
      torch; disclosing hideous abysses, better left hid! The
      unquietest humour possesses all men; ferments, seeks issue, in
      pamphleteering, caricaturing, projecting, declaiming; vain
      jangling of thought, word and deed.

      It is Spiritual Bankruptcy, long tolerated; verging now towards
      Economical Bankruptcy, and become intolerable. For from the
      lowest dumb rank, the inevitable misery, as was predicted, has
      spread upwards. In every man is some obscure feeling that his
      position, oppressive or else oppressed, is a false one: all men,
      in one or the other acrid dialect, as assaulters or as defenders,
      must give vent to the unrest that is in them. Of such stuff
      national well-being, and the glory of rulers, is not made. O
      Loménie, what a wild-heaving, waste-looking, hungry and angry
      world hast thou, after lifelong effort, got promoted to take
      charge of!

      Loménie’s first Edicts are mere soothing ones: creation of
      Provincial Assemblies, “for apportioning the imposts,” when we
      get any; suppression of _Corvées_ or statute-labour; alleviation
      of _Gabelle_. Soothing measures, recommended by the Notables;
      long clamoured for by all liberal men. Oil cast on the waters has
      been known to produce a good effect. Before venturing with great
      essential measures, Loménie will see this singular “swell of the
      public mind” abate somewhat.

      Most proper, surely. But what if it were not a swell of the
      abating kind? There are swells that come of upper tempest and
      wind-gust. But again there are swells that come of subterranean
      pent wind, some say; and even of inward decomposition, of decay
      that has become self-combustion:—as when, according to
      Neptuno-Plutonic Geology, the World is all decayed down into due
      attritus of this sort; and shall now be _exploded_, and new-made!
      These latter abate not by oil.—The fool says in his heart, How
      shall not tomorrow be as yesterday; as all days,—which were once
      tomorrows? The wise man, looking on this France, moral,
      intellectual, economical, sees, “in short, all the symptoms he
      has ever met with in history,”—unabatable by soothing Edicts.

      Meanwhile, abate or not, cash must be had; and for that quite
      another sort of Edicts, namely “bursal” or fiscal ones. How easy
      were fiscal Edicts, did you know for certain that the Parlement
      of Paris would what they call “register” them! Such right of
      registering, properly of mere _writing down_, the Parlement has
      got by old wont; and, though but a Law-Court, can remonstrate,
      and higgle considerably about the same. Hence many quarrels;
      desperate Maupeou devices, and victory and defeat;—a quarrel now
      near forty years long. Hence fiscal Edicts, which otherwise were
      easy enough, become such problems. For example, is there not
      Calonne’s _Subvention Territoriale_, universal, unexempting
      Land-tax; the sheet-anchor of Finance? Or, to show, so far as
      possible, that one is not without original finance talent,
      Loménie himself can devise an _Edit du Timbre_ or
      Stamp-tax,—borrowed also, it is true; but then from America: may
      it prove luckier in France than there!

      France has her resources: nevertheless, it cannot be denied, the
      aspect of that Parlement is questionable. Already among the
      Notables, in that final symphony of dismissal, the Paris
      President had an ominous tone. Adrien Duport, quitting magnetic
      sleep, in this agitation of the world, threatens to rouse himself
      into preternatural wakefulness. Shallower but also louder, there
      is magnetic D’Espréménil, with his tropical heat (he was born at
      Madras); with his dusky confused violence; holding of
      Illumination, Animal Magnetism, Public Opinion, Adam Weisshaupt,
      Harmodius and Aristogiton, and all manner of confused violent
      things: of whom can come no good. The very Peerage is infected
      with the leaven. Our Peers have, in too many cases, laid aside
      their frogs, laces, bagwigs; and go about in English costume, or
      ride rising in their stirrups,—in the most headlong manner;
      nothing but insubordination, eleutheromania, confused unlimited
      opposition in their heads. Questionable: not to be ventured upon,
      if we had a Fortunatus’ Purse! But Loménie has waited all June,
      casting on the waters what oil he had; and now, betide as it may,
      the two Finance Edicts must out. On the 6th of July, he forwards
      his proposed Stamp-tax and Land-tax to the Parlement of Paris;
      and, as if putting his own leg foremost, not his borrowed
      Calonne’s-leg, places the Stamp-tax first in order.

      Alas, the Parlement will _not_ register: the Parlement demands
      instead a “state of the expenditure,” a “state of the
      contemplated reductions;” “states” enough; which his Majesty must
      decline to furnish! Discussions arise; patriotic eloquence: the
      Peers are summoned. Does the Nemean Lion begin to bristle? Here
      surely is a duel, which France and the Universe may look upon:
      with prayers; at lowest, with curiosity and bets. Paris stirs
      with new animation. The outer courts of the Palais de Justice
      roll with unusual crowds, coming and going; their huge outer hum
      mingles with the clang of patriotic eloquence within, and gives
      vigour to it. Poor Loménie gazes from the distance, little
      comforted; has his invisible emissaries flying to and fro,
      assiduous, without result.

      So pass the sultry dog-days, in the most electric manner; and the
      whole month of July. And still, in the Sanctuary of Justice,
      sounds nothing but Harmodius-Aristogiton eloquence, environed
      with the hum of crowding Paris; and no registering accomplished,
      and no “states” furnished. ‘States?’ said a lively Parlementeer:
      ‘Messieurs, the states that should be furnished us, in my opinion
      are the STATES-GENERAL.’ On which timely joke there follow
      cachinnatory buzzes of approval. What a word to be spoken in the
      Palais de Justice! Old D’Ormesson (the Ex-Controller’s uncle)
      shakes his judicious head; far enough from laughing. But the
      outer courts, and Paris and France, catch the glad sound, and
      repeat it; shall repeat it, and re-echo and reverberate it, till
      it grow a deafening peal. Clearly enough here is no registering
      to be thought of.

      The pious Proverb says, “There are remedies for all things but
      death.” When a Parlement refuses registering, the remedy, by long
      practice, has become familiar to the simplest: a Bed of Justice.
      One complete month this Parlement has spent in mere idle
      jargoning, and sound and fury; the _Timbre_ Edict not registered,
      or like to be; the _Subvention_ not yet so much as spoken of. On
      the 6th of August let the whole refractory Body roll out, in
      wheeled vehicles, as far as the King’s Château of Versailles;
      there shall the King, holding his Bed of Justice, _order_ them,
      by his own royal lips, to register. They may remonstrate, in an
      under tone; but they must obey, lest a worse unknown thing befall
      them.

      It is done: the Parlement has rolled out, on royal summons; has
      heard the express royal order to register. Whereupon it has
      rolled back again, amid the hushed expectancy of men. And now,
      behold, on the morrow, this Parlement, seated once more in its
      own Palais, with “crowds inundating the outer courts,” not only
      does not register, but (O portent!) declares all that was done on
      the prior day to be _null_, and the Bed of Justice as good as a
      futility! In the history of France here verily is a new feature.
      Nay better still, our heroic Parlement, getting suddenly
      enlightened on several things, declares that, for its part, it is
      incompetent to register Tax-edicts at all,—having done it by
      mistake, during these late centuries; that for such act one
      authority only is competent: the assembled Three Estates of the
      Realm!

      To such length can the universal spirit of a Nation penetrate the
      most isolated Body-corporate: say rather, with such weapons,
      homicidal and suicidal, in exasperated political duel, will
      Bodies-corporate fight! But, in any case, is not this the real
      death-grapple of war and internecine duel, Greek meeting Greek;
      whereon men, had they even no interest in it, might look with
      interest unspeakable? Crowds, as was said, inundate the outer
      courts: inundation of young eleutheromaniac Noblemen in English
      costume, uttering audacious speeches; of Procureurs,
      Basoche-Clerks, who are idle in these days: of Loungers,
      Newsmongers and other nondescript classes,—rolls tumultuous
      there. “From three to four thousand persons,” waiting eagerly to
      hear the _Arrêtés_ (Resolutions) you arrive at within; applauding
      with bravos, with the clapping of from six to eight thousand
      hands! Sweet also is the meed of patriotic eloquence, when your
      D’Espréménil, your Fréteau, or Sabatier, issuing from his
      Demosthenic Olympus, the thunder being hushed for the day, is
      welcomed, in the outer courts, with a shout from four thousand
      throats; is borne home shoulder-high “with benedictions,” and
      strikes the stars with his sublime head.


      Chapter 1.3.V.
      Loménie’s Thunderbolts.

      Arise, Loménie-Brienne: here is no case for “Letters of Jussion;”
      for faltering or compromise. Thou seest the whole loose _fluent_
      population of Paris (whatsoever is not solid, and fixed to work)
      inundating these outer courts, like a loud destructive deluge;
      the very Basoche of Lawyers’ Clerks talks sedition. The lower
      classes, in this duel of Authority with Authority, Greek
      throttling Greek, have ceased to respect the City-Watch:
      Police-satellites are marked on the back with chalk (the M
      signifies _mouchard_, spy); they are hustled, hunted like _feræ
      naturæ_. Subordinate rural Tribunals send messengers of
      congratulation, of adherence. Their Fountain of Justice is
      becoming a Fountain of Revolt. The Provincial Parlements look on,
      with intent eye, with breathless wishes, while their elder sister
      of Paris does battle: the whole Twelve are of one blood and
      temper; the victory of one is that of all.

      Ever worse it grows: on the 10th of August, there is “_Plainte_”
      emitted touching the “prodigalities of Calonne,” and permission
      to “proceed” against him. No registering, but instead of it,
      denouncing: of dilapidation, peculation; and ever the burden of
      the song, States-General! Have the royal armories no thunderbolt,
      that thou couldst, O Loménie, with red right-hand, launch it
      among these Demosthenic theatrical thunder-barrels, mere resin
      and noise for most part;—and shatter, and smite them silent? On
      the night of the 14th of August, Loménie launches his
      thunderbolt, or handful of them. Letters named of the Seal (_de
      Cachet_), as many as needful, some sixscore and odd, are
      delivered overnight. And so, next day betimes, the whole
      Parlement, once more set on wheels, is rolling incessantly
      towards Troyes in Champagne; “escorted,” says History, “with the
      blessings of all people;” the very innkeepers and postillions
      looking gratuitously reverent.[68] This is the 15th of August
      1787.

      What will not people bless; in their extreme need? Seldom had the
      Parlement of Paris deserved much blessing, or received much. An
      isolated Body-corporate, which, out of old confusions (while the
      Sceptre of the Sword was confusedly struggling to become a
      Sceptre of the Pen), had got itself together, better and worse,
      as Bodies-corporate do, to satisfy some dim desire of the world,
      and many clear desires of individuals; and so had grown, in the
      course of centuries, on concession, on acquirement and
      usurpation, to be what we see it: a prosperous social Anomaly,
      deciding Lawsuits, sanctioning or rejecting Laws; and withal
      disposing of its places and offices by sale for ready
      money,—which method sleek President Hénault, after meditation,
      will demonstrate to be the indifferent-best.[69]

      In such a Body, existing by purchase for ready-money, there could
      not be excess of public spirit; there might well be excess of
      eagerness to divide the public spoil. Men in helmets have divided
      that, with swords; men in wigs, with quill and inkhorn, do divide
      it: and even more hatefully these latter, if more peaceably; for
      the wig-method is at once irresistibler and baser. By long
      experience, says Besenval, it has been found useless to sue a
      Parlementeer at law; no Officer of Justice will serve a writ on
      one; his wig and gown are his Vulcan’s-panoply, his enchanted
      cloak-of-darkness.

      The Parlement of Paris may count itself an unloved body; mean,
      not magnanimous, on the political side. Were the King weak,
      always (as now) has his Parlement barked, cur-like at his heels;
      with what popular cry there might be. Were he strong, it barked
      before his face; hunting for him as his alert beagle. An unjust
      Body; where foul influences have more than once worked shameful
      perversion of judgment. Does not, in these very days, the blood
      of murdered Lally cry aloud for vengeance? Baited, circumvented,
      driven mad like the snared lion, Valour had to sink extinguished
      under vindictive Chicane. Behold him, that hapless Lally, his
      wild dark soul looking through his wild dark face; trailed on the
      ignominious death-hurdle; the voice of his despair choked by a
      wooden gag! The wild fire-soul that has known only peril and
      toil; and, for threescore years, has buffeted against Fate’s
      obstruction and men’s perfidy, like genius and courage amid
      poltroonery, dishonesty and commonplace; faithfully enduring and
      endeavouring,—O Parlement of Paris, dost thou reward it with a
      gibbet and a gag?[70] The dying Lally bequeathed his memory to
      his boy; a young Lally has arisen, demanding redress in the name
      of God and man. The Parlement of Paris does its utmost to defend
      the indefensible, abominable; nay, what is singular,
      dusky-glowing Aristogiton d’Espréménil is the man chosen to be
      its spokesman in that.

      Such Social Anomaly is it that France now blesses. An unclean
      Social Anomaly; but in duel against another worse! The exiled
      Parlement is felt to have “covered itself with glory.” There are
      quarrels in which even Satan, bringing help, were not unwelcome;
      even Satan, fighting stiffly, might cover himself with glory,—of
      a temporary sort.

      But what a stir in the outer courts of the Palais, when Paris
      finds its Parlement trundled off to Troyes in Champagne; and
      nothing left but a few mute Keepers of records; the Demosthenic
      thunder become extinct, the martyrs of liberty clean gone!
      Confused wail and menace rises from the four thousand throats of
      Procureurs, Basoche-Clerks, Nondescripts, and Anglomaniac
      Noblesse; ever new idlers crowd to see and hear; Rascality, with
      increasing numbers and vigour, hunts _mouchards_. Loud whirlpool
      rolls through these spaces; the rest of the City, fixed to its
      work, cannot yet go rolling. Audacious placards are legible, in
      and about the Palais, the speeches are as good as seditious.
      Surely the temper of Paris is much changed. On the third day of
      this business (18th of August), Monsieur and Monseigneur
      d’Artois, coming in state-carriages, according to use and wont,
      to have these late obnoxious _Arrêtés_ and protests “expunged”
      from the Records, are received in the most marked manner.
      Monsieur, who is thought to be in opposition, is met with vivats
      and strewed flowers; Monseigneur, on the other hand, with
      silence; with murmurs, which rise to hisses and groans; nay, an
      irreverent Rascality presses towards him in floods, with such
      hissing vehemence, that the Captain of the Guards has to give
      order, ‘_Haut les armes_ (Handle arms)!’—at which thunder-word,
      indeed, and the flash of the clear iron, the Rascal-flood
      recoils, through all avenues, fast enough.[71] New features
      these. Indeed, as good M. de Malesherbes pertinently remarks, ‘it
      is a quite new kind of contest this with the Parlement:’ no
      transitory sputter, as from collision of hard bodies; but more
      like ‘the first sparks of what, if not quenched, may become a
      great conflagration.’[72]

      This good Malesherbes sees himself now again in the King’s
      Council, after an absence of ten years: Loménie would profit if
      not by the faculties of the man, yet by the name he has. As for
      the man’s opinion, it is not listened to;—wherefore he will soon
      withdraw, a second time; back to his books and his trees. In such
      King’s Council what can a good man profit? Turgot tries it not a
      second time: Turgot has quitted France and this Earth, some years
      ago; and now cares for none of these things. Singular enough:
      Turgot, this same Loménie, and the Abbé Morellet were once a trio
      of young friends; fellow-scholars in the Sorbonne. Forty new
      years have carried them severally thus far.

      Meanwhile the Parlement sits daily at Troyes, calling cases; and
      daily adjourns, no Procureur making his appearance to plead.
      Troyes is as hospitable as could be looked for: nevertheless one
      has comparatively a dull life. No crowds now to carry you,
      shoulder-high, to the immortal gods; scarcely a Patriot or two
      will drive out so far, and bid you be of firm courage. You are in
      furnished lodgings, far from home and domestic comfort: little to
      do, but wander over the unlovely Champagne fields; seeing the
      grapes ripen; taking counsel about the thousand-times consulted:
      a prey to tedium; in danger even that Paris may forget you.
      Messengers come and go: pacific Loménie is not slack in
      negotiating, promising; D’Ormesson and the prudent elder Members
      see no good in strife.

      After a dull month, the Parlement, yielding and retaining, makes
      truce, as all Parlements must. The Stamp-tax is withdrawn: the
      _Subvention_ Land-tax is also withdrawn; but, in its stead, there
      is granted, what they call a “Prorogation of the Second
      Twentieth,”—itself a kind of Land-tax, but not so oppressive to
      the Influential classes; which lies mainly on the Dumb class.
      Moreover, secret promises exist (on the part of the Elders), that
      finances may be raised by Loan. Of the ugly word States-General
      there shall be no mention.

      And so, on the 20th of September, our exiled Parlement returns:
      D’Espréménil said, “it went out covered with glory, but had come
      back covered with mud (_de boue_).” Not so, Aristogiton; or if
      so, thou surely art the man to clean it.


      Chapter 1.3.VI.
      Loménie’s Plots.

      Was ever unfortunate Chief Minister so bested as Loménie-Brienne?
      The reins of the State fairly in his hand these six months; and
      not the smallest motive-power (of Finance) to stir from the spot
      with, this way or that! He flourishes his whip, but advances not.
      Instead of ready-money, there is nothing but rebellious debating
      and recalcitrating.

      Far is the public mind from having calmed; it goes chafing and
      fuming ever worse: and in the royal coffers, with such yearly
      Deficit running on, there is hardly the colour of coin. Ominous
      prognostics! Malesherbes, seeing an exhausted, exasperated France
      grow hotter and hotter, talks of “conflagration:” Mirabeau,
      without talk, has, as we perceive, descended on Paris again,
      close on the rear of the Parlement,[73]—not to quit his native
      soil any more.

      Over the Frontiers, behold Holland invaded by Prussia;[74] the
      French party oppressed, England and the Stadtholder triumphing:
      to the sorrow of War-Secretary Montmorin and all men. But without
      money, sinews of war, as of work, and of existence itself, what
      can a Chief Minister do? Taxes profit little: this of the Second
      Twentieth falls not due till next year; and will then, with its
      “strict valuation,” produce more controversy than cash. Taxes on
      the Privileged Classes cannot be got registered; are intolerable
      to our supporters themselves: taxes on the Unprivileged yield
      nothing,—as from a thing drained dry more cannot be drawn. Hope
      is nowhere, if not in the old refuge of Loans.

      To Loménie, aided by the long head of Lamoignon, deeply pondering
      this sea of troubles, the thought suggested itself: Why not have
      a Successive Loan (_Emprunt Successif_), or Loan that went on
      lending, year after year, as much as needful; say, till 1792? The
      trouble of registering such Loan were the same: we had then
      breathing time; money to work with, at least to subsist on. Edict
      of a Successive Loan must be proposed. To conciliate the
      Philosophes, let a liberal Edict walk in front of it, for
      emancipation of Protestants; let a liberal Promise guard the rear
      of it, that when our Loan ends, in that final 1792, the
      States-General shall be convoked.

      Such liberal Edict of Protestant Emancipation, the time having
      come for it, shall cost a Loménie as little as the
      “Death-penalties to be put in execution” did. As for the liberal
      Promise, of States-General, it can be fulfilled or not: the
      fulfilment is five good years off; in five years much intervenes.
      But the registering? Ah, truly, there is the difficulty!—However,
      we have that promise of the Elders, given secretly at Troyes.
      Judicious gratuities, cajoleries, underground intrigues, with old
      Foulon, named “_Ame damnée_, Familiar-demon, of the Parlement,”
      may perhaps do the rest. At worst and lowest, the Royal Authority
      has resources,—which ought it not to put forth? If it cannot
      realise money, the Royal Authority is as good as dead; dead of
      that surest and miserablest death, inanition. Risk and win;
      without risk all is already lost! For the rest, as in enterprises
      of pith, a touch of stratagem often proves furthersome, his
      Majesty announces _a Royal Hunt_, for the 19th of November next;
      and all whom it concerns are joyfully getting their gear ready.

      Royal Hunt indeed; but of two-legged unfeathered game! At eleven
      in the morning of that Royal-Hunt day, 19th of November 1787,
      unexpected blare of trumpetting, tumult of charioteering and
      cavalcading disturbs the Seat of Justice: his Majesty is come,
      with Garde-des-Sceaux Lamoignon, and Peers and retinue, to hold
      Royal Session and have Edicts registered. What a change, since
      Louis XIV. entered here, in boots; and, whip in hand, ordered his
      registering to be done,—with an Olympian look which none durst
      gainsay; and did, without stratagem, in such unceremonious
      fashion, hunt as well as register![75] For Louis XVI., on this
      day, the Registering will be enough; if indeed he and the day
      suffice for it.

      Meanwhile, with fit ceremonial words, the purpose of the royal
      breast is signified:—Two Edicts, for Protestant Emancipation, for
      Successive Loan: of both which Edicts our trusty Garde-des-Sceaux
      Lamoignon will explain the purport; on both which a trusty
      Parlement is requested to deliver its opinion, each member having
      free privilege of speech. And so, Lamoignon too having perorated
      not amiss, and wound up with that Promise of States-General,—the
      Sphere-music of Parlementary eloquence begins. Explosive,
      responsive, sphere answering sphere, it waxes louder and louder.
      The Peers sit attentive; of diverse sentiment: unfriendly to
      States-General; unfriendly to Despotism, which cannot reward
      merit, and is suppressing places. But what agitates his Highness
      d’Orléans? The rubicund moon-head goes wagging; darker beams the
      copper visage, like unscoured copper; in the glazed eye is
      disquietude; he rolls uneasy in his seat, as if he meant
      something. Amid unutterable satiety, has sudden new appetite, for
      new forbidden fruit, been vouchsafed him? Disgust and edacity;
      laziness that cannot rest; futile ambition, revenge,
      non-admiralship:—O, within that carbuncled skin what a confusion
      of confusions sits bottled!

      “Eight Couriers,” in course of the day, gallop from Versailles,
      where Loménie waits palpitating; and gallop back again, not with
      the best news. In the outer Courts of the Palais, huge buzz of
      expectation reigns; it is whispered the Chief Minister has lost
      six votes overnight. And from within, resounds nothing but
      forensic eloquence, pathetic and even indignant; heartrending
      appeals to the royal clemency, that his Majesty would please to
      summon States-General forthwith, and be the Saviour of
      France:—wherein dusky-glowing D’Espréménil, but still more
      Sabatier de Cabre, and Fréteau, since named _Commère_ Fréteau
      (Goody Fréteau), are among the loudest. For six mortal hours it
      lasts, in this manner; the infinite hubbub unslackened.

      And so now, when brown dusk is falling through the windows, and
      no end visible, his Majesty, on hint of Garde-des-Sceaux,
      Lamoignon, opens his royal lips once more to say, in brief That
      he must have his Loan-Edict registered.—Momentary deep
      pause!—See! Monseigneur d’Orléans rises; with moon-visage turned
      towards the royal platform, he asks, with a delicate graciosity
      of manner covering unutterable things: ‘Whether it is a Bed of
      Justice, then; or a Royal Session?’ Fire flashes on him from the
      throne and neighbourhood: surly answer that ‘it is a Session.’ In
      that case, Monseigneur will crave leave to remark that Edicts
      cannot be registered by _order_ in a Session; and indeed to
      enter, against such registry, his individual humble Protest.
      ‘_Vous êtes bien le maître_ (You will do your pleasure)’, answers
      the King; and thereupon, in high state, marches out, escorted by
      his Court-retinue; D’Orléans himself, as in duty bound, escorting
      him, but only to the gate. Which duty done, D’Orléans returns in
      from the gate; redacts his Protest, in the face of an applauding
      Parlement, an applauding France; and so—has _cut_ his
      Court-moorings, shall we say? And will now sail and drift, fast
      enough, towards Chaos?

      Thou foolish D’Orléans; Equality that art to be! Is Royalty grown
      a mere wooden Scarecrow; whereon thou, pert scald-headed crow,
      mayest alight at pleasure, and peck? Not yet wholly.

      Next day, a Lettre-de-Cachet sends D’Orléans to bethink himself
      in his Château of Villers-Cotterets, where, alas, is no Paris
      with its joyous necessaries of life; no fascinating indispensable
      Madame de Buffon,—light wife of a great Naturalist much too old
      for her. Monseigneur, it is said, does nothing but walk
      distractedly, at Villers-Cotterets; cursing his stars. Versailles
      itself shall hear penitent wail from him, so hard is his doom. By
      a second, simultaneous Lettre-de-Cachet, Goody Fréteau is hurled
      into the Stronghold of Ham, amid the Norman marshes; by a third,
      Sabatier de Cabre into Mont St. Michel, amid the Norman
      quicksands. As for the Parlement, it must, on summons, travel out
      to Versailles, with its Register-Book under its arm, to have the
      Protest _biffé_ (expunged); not without admonition, and even
      rebuke. A stroke of authority which, one might have hoped, would
      quiet matters.

      Unhappily, no; it is a mere taste of the whip to rearing
      coursers, which makes them rear worse! When a team of Twenty-five
      Millions begins rearing, what is Loménie’s whip? The Parlement
      will nowise acquiesce meekly; and set to register the Protestant
      Edict, and do its other work, in salutary fear of these three
      Lettres-de-Cachet. Far from that, it begins questioning
      Lettres-de-Cachet generally, their legality, endurability; emits
      dolorous objurgation, petition on petition to have its three
      Martyrs delivered; cannot, till that be complied with, so much as
      think of examining the Protestant Edict, but puts it off always
      “till this day week.”[76]

      In which objurgatory strain Paris and France joins it, or rather
      has preceded it; making fearful chorus. And now also the other
      Parlements, at length opening their mouths, begin to join; some
      of them, as at Grenoble and at Rennes, with portentous
      emphasis,—threatening, by way of reprisal, to interdict the very
      Tax-gatherer.[77] ‘In all former contests,’ as Malesherbes
      remarks, ‘it was the Parlement that excited the Public; but here
      it is the Public that excites the Parlement.’


      Chapter 1.3.VII.
      Internecine.

      What a France, through these winter months of the year 1787! The
      very Œil-de-Bœuf is doleful, uncertain; with a general feeling
      among the Suppressed, that it were better to be in Turkey. The
      Wolf-hounds are suppressed, the Bear-hounds, Duke de Coigny, Duke
      de Polignac: in the Trianon little-heaven, her Majesty, one
      evening, takes Besenval’s arm; asks his candid opinion. The
      intrepid Besenval,—having, as he hopes, nothing of the sycophant
      in _him_,—plainly signifies that, with a Parlement in rebellion,
      and an Œil-de-Bœuf in suppression, the King’s Crown is in
      danger;—whereupon, singular to say, her Majesty, as if hurt,
      changed the subject, _et ne me parla plus de rien!_[78]

      To whom, indeed, can this poor Queen speak? In need of wise
      counsel, if ever mortal was; yet beset here only by the hubbub of
      chaos! Her dwelling-place is so bright to the eye, and confusion
      and black care darkens it all. Sorrows of the Sovereign, sorrows
      of the woman, think-coming sorrows environ her more and more.
      Lamotte, the Necklace-Countess, has in these late months escaped,
      perhaps been suffered to escape, from the Salpêtrière. Vain was
      the hope that Paris might thereby forget her; and this
      ever-widening-lie, and heap of lies, subside. The Lamotte, with a
      V (for _Voleuse_, Thief) branded on both shoulders, has got to
      England; and will therefrom emit lie on lie; defiling the highest
      queenly name: mere distracted lies;[79] which, in its present
      humour, France will greedily believe.

      For the rest, it is too clear our Successive Loan is not filling.
      As indeed, in such circumstances, a Loan registered by expunging
      of Protests was not the likeliest to fill. Denunciation of
      _Lettres-de-Cachet_, of Despotism generally, abates not: the
      Twelve Parlements are busy; the Twelve hundred Placarders,
      Balladsingers, Pamphleteers. Paris is what, in figurative speech,
      they call “flooded with pamphlets (_regorge de brochures_);”
      flooded and eddying again. Hot deluge,—from so many Patriot
      ready-writers, all at the _fervid_ or boiling point; each
      ready-writer, now in the hour of eruption, going like an Iceland
      Geyser! Against which what can a judicious friend Morellet do; a
      Rivarol, an unruly Linguet (well paid for it),—spouting _cold!_

      Now also, at length, does come discussion of the Protestant
      Edict: but only for new embroilment; in pamphlet and
      counter-pamphlet, increasing the madness of men. Not even
      Orthodoxy, bedrid as she seemed, but will have a hand in this
      confusion. She, once again in the shape of Abbé Lenfant, “whom
      Prelates drive to visit and congratulate,”—raises audible sound
      from her pulpit-drum.[80] Or mark how D’Espréménil, who has his
      own confused way in all things, produces at the right moment in
      Parlementary harangue, a pocket Crucifix, with the apostrophe:
      ‘Will ye crucify him afresh?’ _Him_, O D’Espréménil, without
      scruple;—considering what poor stuff, of ivory and filigree, _he_
      is made of!

      To all which add only that poor Brienne has fallen sick; so hard
      was the tear and wear of his sinful youth, so violent, incessant
      is this agitation of his foolish old age. Baited, bayed at
      through so many throats, his Grace, growing consumptive,
      inflammatory (with _humeur de dartre_), lies reduced to milk
      diet; in exasperation, almost in desperation; with “repose,”
      precisely the impossible recipe, prescribed as the
      indispensable.[81]

      On the whole, what can a poor Government do, but once more recoil
      ineffectual? The King’s Treasury is running towards the lees; and
      Paris “eddies with a flood of pamphlets.” At all rates, let the
      _latter_ subside a little! D’Orléans gets back to Raincy, which
      is nearer Paris and the fair frail Buffon; finally to Paris
      itself: neither are Fréteau and Sabatier banished forever. The
      Protestant Edict is registered; to the joy of Boissy d’Anglas and
      good Malesherbes: Successive Loan, all protests expunged or else
      withdrawn, remains open,—the rather as few or none come to fill
      it. States-General, for which the Parlement has clamoured, and
      now the whole Nation clamours, will follow “in five years,”—if
      indeed not sooner. O Parlement of Paris, what a clamour was that!
      ‘Messieurs,’ said old d’Ormesson, ‘you will get States-General,
      and you will repent it.’ Like the Horse in the Fable, who, to be
      avenged of his enemy, applied to the Man. The Man mounted; did
      swift execution on the enemy; but, unhappily, would not dismount!
      Instead of five years, let three years pass, and this clamorous
      Parlement shall have both seen its enemy hurled prostrate, and
      been itself ridden to foundering (say rather, jugulated for hide
      and shoes), and lie dead in the ditch.

      Under such omens, however, we have reached the spring of 1788. By
      no path can the King’s Government find passage for itself, but is
      everywhere shamefully flung back. Beleaguered by Twelve
      rebellious Parlements, which are grown to be the organs of an
      angry Nation, it can advance nowhither; can accomplish nothing,
      obtain nothing, not so much as money to subsist on; but must sit
      there, seemingly, to be eaten up of Deficit.

      The measure of the Iniquity, then, of the Falsehood which has
      been gathering through long centuries, is nearly full? At least,
      that of the misery is! For the hovels of the Twenty-five
      Millions, the misery, permeating upwards and forwards, as its law
      is, has got so far,—to the very Œil-de-Bœuf of Versailles. Man’s
      hand, in this blind pain, is set against man: not only the low
      against the higher, but the higher against each other; Provincial
      Noblesse is bitter against Court Noblesse; Robe against Sword;
      Rochet against Pen. But against the King’s Government who is not
      bitter? Not even Besenval, in these days. To it all men and
      bodies of men are become as enemies; it is the centre whereon
      infinite contentions unite and clash. What new universal
      vertiginous movement is this; of Institution, social
      Arrangements, individual Minds, which once worked cooperative;
      now rolling and grinding in distracted collision? Inevitable: it
      is the breaking-up of a World-Solecism, worn out at last, down
      even to bankruptcy of money! And so this poor Versailles Court,
      as the chief or central Solecism, finds all the other Solecisms
      arrayed against it. Most natural! For your human Solecism, be it
      Person or Combination of Persons, is ever, by law of Nature,
      uneasy; if verging towards bankruptcy, it is even miserable:—and
      when would the meanest Solecism consent to blame or amend
      _itself_, while there remained another to amend?

      These threatening signs do not terrify Loménie, much less teach
      him. Loménie, though of light nature, is not without courage, of
      a sort. Nay, have we not read of lightest creatures, trained
      Canary-birds, that could fly cheerfully with lighted matches, and
      fire cannon; fire whole powder-magazines? To sit and die of
      deficit is no part of Loménie’s plan. The evil is considerable;
      but can he not remove it, can he not attack it? At lowest, he can
      attack the _symptom_ of it: these rebellious Parlements he can
      attack, and perhaps remove. Much is dim to Loménie, but two
      things are clear: that such Parlementary duel with Royalty is
      growing perilous, nay internecine; above all, that money must be
      had. Take thought, brave Loménie; thou Garde-des-Sceaux
      Lamoignon, who hast ideas! So often defeated, balked cruelly when
      the golden fruit seemed within clutch, rally for one other
      struggle. To tame the Parlement, to fill the King’s coffers:
      these are now life-and-death questions.

      Parlements have been tamed, more than once. Set to perch “on the
      peaks of rocks in accessible except by litters,” a Parlement
      grows reasonable. O Maupeou, thou bold man, had we left thy work
      where it was!—But apart from exile, or other violent methods, is
      there not one method, whereby all things are tamed, even lions?
      The method of hunger! What if the Parlement’s supplies were cut
      off; namely its Lawsuits!

      Minor Courts, for the trying of innumerable minor causes, might
      be instituted: these we could call _Grand Bailliages_. Whereon
      the Parlement, shortened of its prey, would look with yellow
      despair; but the Public, fond of cheap justice, with favour and
      hope. Then for Finance, for registering of Edicts, why not, from
      our own Œil-de-Bœuf Dignitaries, our Princes, Dukes, Marshals,
      make a thing we could call _Plenary Court_; and there, so to
      speak, do our registering ourselves? St. Louis had his Plenary
      Court, of Great Barons;[82] most useful to him: our Great Barons
      are still here (at least the Name of them is still here); our
      necessity is greater than his.

      Such is the Loménie-Lamoignon device; welcome to the King’s
      Council, as a light-beam in great darkness. The device seems
      feasible, it is eminently needful: be it once well executed,
      great deliverance is wrought. Silent, then, and steady; now or
      never!—the World shall see one other Historical Scene; and so
      singular a man as Loménie de Brienne still the Stage-manager
      there.

      Behold, accordingly, a Home-Secretary Bréteuil “beautifying
      Paris,” in the peaceablest manner, in this hopeful spring weather
      of 1788; the old hovels and hutches disappearing from our
      Bridges: as if for the State too there were halcyon weather, and
      nothing to do but beautify. Parlement seems to sit acknowledged
      victor. Brienne says nothing of Finance; or even says, and
      prints, that it is all well. How is this; such halcyon quiet;
      though the Successive Loan did not fill? In a victorious
      Parlement, Counsellor Goeslard de Monsabert even denounces that
      “levying of the Second Twentieth on strict valuation;” and gets
      decree that the valuation shall not be strict,—not on the
      privileged classes. Nevertheless Brienne endures it, launches no
      Lettre-de-Cachet against it. How is this?

      Smiling is such vernal weather; but treacherous, sudden! For one
      thing, we hear it whispered, “the Intendants of Provinces have
      all got order to be at their posts on a certain day.” Still more
      singular, what incessant Printing is this that goes on at the
      King’s Château, under lock and key? Sentries occupy all gates and
      windows; the Printers come not out; they sleep in their
      workrooms; their very food is handed in to them![83] A victorious
      Parlement smells new danger. D’Espréménil has ordered horses to
      Versailles; prowls round that guarded Printing-Office; prying,
      snuffing, if so be the sagacity and ingenuity of man may
      penetrate it.

      To a shower of gold most things are penetrable. D’Espréménil
      descends on the lap of a Printer’s Danae, in the shape of “five
      hundred louis d’or:” the Danae’s Husband smuggles a ball of clay
      to her; which she delivers to the golden Counsellor of Parlement.
      Kneaded within it, their stick printed proof-sheets;—by Heaven!
      the royal Edict of that same self-registering _Plenary Court;_ of
      those _Grand Bailliages_ that shall cut short our Lawsuits! It is
      to be promulgated over all France on one and the same day.

      This, then, is what the Intendants were bid wait for at their
      posts: this is what the Court sat hatching, as its accursed
      cockatrice-egg; and would not stir, though provoked, till the
      brood were out! Hie with it, D’Espréménil, home to Paris; convoke
      instantaneous Sessions; let the Parlement, and the Earth, and the
      Heavens know it.


      Chapter 1.3.VIII.
      Loménie’s Death-throes.

      On the morrow, which is the 3rd of May, 1788, an astonished
      Parlement sits convoked; listens speechless to the speech of
      D’Espréménil, unfolding the infinite misdeed. Deed of treachery;
      of unhallowed darkness, such as Despotism loves! Denounce it, O
      Parlement of Paris; awaken France and the Universe; roll what
      thunder-barrels of forensic eloquence thou hast: with thee too it
      is verily Now or never!

      The Parlement is not wanting, at such juncture. In the hour of
      his extreme jeopardy, the lion first incites himself by roaring,
      by lashing his sides. So here the Parlement of Paris. On the
      motion of D’Espréménil, a most patriotic Oath, of the One-and-all
      sort, is sworn, with united throat;—an excellent new-idea, which,
      in these coming years, shall not remain unimitated. Next comes
      indomitable Declaration, almost of the rights of man, at least of
      the rights of Parlement; Invocation to the friends of French
      Freedom, in this and in subsequent time. All which, or the
      essence of all which, is brought to paper; in a tone wherein
      something of plaintiveness blends with, and tempers, heroic
      valour. And thus, having sounded the storm-bell,—which Paris
      hears, which all France will hear; and hurled such defiance in
      the teeth of Loménie and Despotism, the Parlement retires as from
      a tolerable first day’s work.

      But how Loménie felt to see his cockatrice-egg (so essential to
      the salvation of France) broken in this premature manner, let
      readers fancy! Indignant he clutches at his thunderbolts (_de
      Cachet_, of the Seal); and launches two of them: a bolt for
      D’Espréménil; a bolt for that busy Goeslard, whose service in the
      Second Twentieth and “strict valuation” is not forgotten. Such
      bolts clutched promptly overnight, and launched with the early
      new morning, shall strike agitated Paris if not into
      requiescence, yet into wholesome astonishment.

      Ministerial thunderbolts may be launched; but if they do not
      _hit?_ D’Espréménil and Goeslard, warned, both of them, as is
      thought, by the singing of some friendly bird, elude the Loménie
      Tipstaves; escape disguised through skywindows, over roofs, to
      their own Palais de Justice: the thunderbolts have _missed_.
      Paris (for the buzz flies abroad) is struck into astonishment
      _not_ wholesome. The two martyrs of Liberty doff their disguises;
      don their long gowns; behold, in the space of an hour, by aid of
      ushers and swift runners, the Parlement, with its Counsellors,
      Presidents, even Peers, sits anew assembled. The assembled
      Parlement declares that these its two martyrs cannot be given up,
      to any sublunary authority; moreover that the “session is
      permanent,” admitting of no adjournment, till pursuit of them has
      been relinquished.

      And so, with forensic eloquence, denunciation and protest, with
      couriers going and returning, the Parlement, in this state of
      continual explosion that shall cease neither night nor day, waits
      the issue. Awakened Paris once more inundates those outer courts;
      boils, in floods wilder than ever, through all avenues. Dissonant
      hubbub there is; jargon as of Babel, in the hour when they were
      first smitten (as here) with mutual unintelligibilty, and the
      people had not yet dispersed!

      Paris City goes through its diurnal epochs, of working and
      slumbering; and now, for the second time, most European and
      African mortals are asleep. But here, in this Whirlpool of Words,
      sleep falls not; the Night spreads her coverlid of Darkness over
      it in vain. Within is the sound of mere martyr invincibility;
      tempered with the due tone of plaintiveness. Without is the
      infinite expectant hum,—growing drowsier a little. So has it
      lasted for six-and-thirty hours.

      But hark, through the dead of midnight, what tramp is this? Tramp
      as of armed men, foot and horse; Gardes Françaises, Gardes
      Suisses: marching hither; in silent regularity; in the flare of
      torchlight! There are Sappers, too, with axes and crowbars:
      apparently, if the doors open not, they will be forced!—It is
      Captain D’Agoust, missioned from Versailles. D’Agoust, a man of
      known firmness;—who once forced Prince Condé himself, by mere
      incessant looking at him, to give satisfaction and fight;[84] he
      now, with axes and torches is advancing on the very sanctuary of
      Justice. Sacrilegious; yet what help? The man is a soldier; looks
      merely at his orders; impassive, moves forward like an inanimate
      engine.

      The doors open on summons, there need no axes; door after door.
      And now the innermost door opens; discloses the long-gowned
      Senators of France: a hundred and sixty-seven by tale, seventeen
      of them Peers; sitting there, majestic, “in permanent session.”
      Were not the men military, and of cast-iron, this sight, this
      silence reechoing the clank of his own boots, might stagger him!
      For the hundred and sixty-seven receive him in perfect silence;
      which some liken to that of the Roman Senate overfallen by
      Brennus; some to that of a nest of coiners surprised by officers
      of the Police.[85] _Messieurs_, said D’Agoust, _De par le Roi!_
      Express order has charged D’Agoust with the sad duty of arresting
      two individuals: M. Duval d’Espréménil and M. Goeslard de
      Monsabert. Which respectable individuals, as he has not the
      honour of knowing them, are hereby invited, in the King’s name,
      to surrender themselves.—Profound silence! Buzz, which grows a
      murmur: ‘We are all D’Espréménils!’ ventures a voice; which other
      voices repeat. The President inquires, Whether he will employ
      violence? Captain D’Agoust, honoured with his Majesty’s
      commission, has to execute his Majesty’s order; would so gladly
      do it without violence, will in any case do it; grants an august
      Senate space to deliberate which method _they_ prefer. And
      thereupon D’Agoust, with grave military courtesy, has withdrawn
      for the moment.

      What boots it, august Senators? All avenues are closed with fixed
      bayonets. Your Courier gallops to Versailles, through the dewy
      Night; but also gallops back again, with tidings that the order
      is authentic, that it is irrevocable. The outer courts simmer
      with idle population; but D’Agoust’s grenadier-ranks stand there
      as immovable floodgates: there will be no revolting to deliver
      you. ‘Messieurs!’ thus spoke D’Espréménil, ‘when the victorious
      Gauls entered Rome, which they had carried by assault, the Roman
      Senators, clothed in their purple, sat there, in their curule
      chairs, with a proud and tranquil countenance, awaiting slavery
      or death. Such too is the lofty spectacle, which you, in this
      hour, offer to the universe (_à l’univers_), after having
      generously’—with much more of the like, as can still be read.[86]

      In vain, O D’Espréménil! Here is this cast-iron Captain D’Agoust,
      with his cast-iron military air, come back. Despotism,
      constraint, destruction sit waving in his plumes. D’Espréménil
      must fall silent; heroically give himself up, lest worst befall.
      Him Goeslard heroically imitates. With spoken and speechless
      emotion, they fling themselves into the arms of their
      Parlementary brethren, for a last embrace: and so amid plaudits
      and plaints, from a hundred and sixty-five throats; amid wavings,
      sobbings, a whole forest-sigh of Parlementary pathos,—they are
      led through winding passages, to the rear-gate; where, in the
      gray of the morning, two Coaches with _Exempts_ stand waiting.
      There must the victims mount; bayonets menacing behind.
      D’Espréménil’s stern question to the populace, “Whether they have
      courage?” is answered by silence. They mount, and roll; and
      neither the rising of the May sun (it is the 6th morning), nor
      its setting shall lighten their heart: but they fare forward
      continually; D’Espréménil towards the utmost Isles of Sainte
      Marguerite, or Hieres (supposed by some, if that is any comfort,
      to be Calypso’s Island); Goeslard towards the land-fortress of
      Pierre-en-Cize, extant then, near the City of Lyons.

      Captain D’Agoust may now therefore look forward to Majorship, to
      Commandantship of the Tuilleries;[87]—and withal vanish from
      History; where nevertheless he has been fated to do a notable
      thing. For not only are D’Espréménil and Goeslard safe whirling
      southward, but the Parlement itself has straightway to march out:
      to that also his inexorable order reaches. Gathering up their
      long skirts, they file out, the whole Hundred and Sixty-five of
      them, through two rows of unsympathetic grenadiers: a spectacle
      to gods and men. The people revolt not; they only wonder and
      grumble: also, we remark, these unsympathetic grenadiers are
      _Gardes Françaises_,—who, one day, will sympathise! In a word,
      the Palais de Justice is swept clear, the doors of it are locked;
      and D’Agoust returns to Versailles with the key in his
      pocket,—having, as was said, merited preferment.

      As for this Parlement of Paris, now turned out to the street, we
      will without reluctance leave it there. The Beds of Justice it
      had to undergo, in the coming fortnight, at Versailles, in
      registering, or rather refusing to register, those new-hatched
      Edicts; and how it assembled in taverns and tap-rooms there, for
      the purpose of Protesting,[88] or hovered disconsolate, with
      outspread skirts, not knowing where to assemble; and was reduced
      to lodge Protest “with a Notary;” and in the end, to sit still
      (in a state of forced “vacation”), and do nothing; all this,
      natural now, as the burying of the dead after battle, shall not
      concern us. The Parlement of Paris has as good as performed its
      part; doing and misdoing, so far, but hardly further, could it
      stir the world.

      Loménie has removed the evil then? Not at all: not so much as the
      symptom of the evil; scarcely the _twelfth_ part of the symptom,
      and exasperated the other eleven! The Intendants of Provinces,
      the Military Commandants are at their posts, on the appointed 8th
      of May: but in no Parlement, if not in the single one of Douai,
      can these new Edicts get registered. Not peaceable signing with
      ink; but browbeating, bloodshedding, appeal to primary club-law!
      Against these Bailliages, against this Plenary Court, exasperated
      Themis everywhere shows face of battle; the Provincial Noblesse
      are of her party, and whoever hates Loménie and the evil time;
      with her attorneys and Tipstaves, she enlists and operates down
      even to the populace. At Rennes in Brittany, where the historical
      Bertrand de Moleville is Intendant, it has passed from fatal
      continual duelling, between the military and gentry, to
      street-fighting; to stone-volleys and musket-shot: and still the
      Edicts remained unregistered. The afflicted Bretons send
      remonstrance to Loménie, by a Deputation of Twelve; whom,
      however, Loménie, having heard them, shuts up in the Bastille. A
      second larger deputation he meets, by his scouts, on the road,
      and persuades or frightens back. But now a third largest
      Deputation is indignantly sent by _many_ roads: refused audience
      on arriving, it meets to take council; invites Lafayette and all
      Patriot Bretons in Paris to assist; agitates itself; becomes the
      _Breton Club_, first germ of—the _Jacobins’ Society._[89]

      So many as eight Parlements get exiled:[90] others might need
      that remedy, but it is one not always easy of appliance. At
      Grenoble, for instance, where a Mounier, a Barnave have not been
      idle, the Parlement had due order (by _Lettres-de-Cachet_) to
      depart, and exile itself: but on the morrow, instead of coaches
      getting yoked, the alarm-bell bursts forth, ominous; and peals
      and booms all day: crowds of mountaineers rush down, with axes,
      even with firelocks,—whom (most ominous of all!) the soldiery
      shows no eagerness to deal with. “Axe over head,” the poor
      General has to sign capitulation; to engage that the
      _Lettres-de-Cachet_ shall remain unexecuted, and a beloved
      Parlement stay where it is. Besancon, Dijon, Rouen, Bourdeaux,
      are not what they should be! At Pau in Bearn, where the old
      Commandant had failed, the new one (a Grammont, native to them)
      is met by a Procession of townsmen with the Cradle of Henri
      Quatre, the Palladium of their Town; is conjured as he venerates
      this old Tortoise-shell, in which the great Henri was rocked, not
      to trample on Bearnese liberty; is informed, withal, that his
      Majesty’s cannon are all safe—in the keeping of his Majesty’s
      faithful Burghers of Pau, and do now lie pointed on the walls
      there; ready for action![91]

      At this rate, your Grand Bailliages are like to have a stormy
      infancy. As for the Plenary Court, it has literally expired in
      the birth. The very Courtiers looked shy at it; old Marshal
      Broglie declined the honour of sitting therein. Assaulted by a
      universal storm of mingled ridicule and execration,[92] this poor
      Plenary Court met once, and never any second time. Distracted
      country! Contention hisses up, with forked hydra-tongues,
      wheresoever poor Loménie sets his foot. “Let a Commandant, a
      Commissioner of the King,” says Weber, “enter one of these
      Parlements to have an Edict registered, the whole Tribunal will
      disappear, and leave the Commandant alone with the Clerk and
      First President. The Edict registered and the Commandant gone,
      the whole Tribunal hastens back, to declare such registration
      null. The highways are covered with _Grand Deputations_ of
      Parlements, proceeding to Versailles, to have their registers
      expunged by the King’s hand; or returning home, to cover a new
      page with a new resolution still more audacious.”[93]

      Such is the France of this year 1788. Not now a Golden or Paper
      Age of Hope; with its horse-racings, balloon-flyings, and finer
      sensibilities of the heart: ah, gone is that; its golden
      effulgence paled, bedarkened in _this_ singular manner,—brewing
      towards preternatural weather! For, as in that wreck-storm of
      _Paul et Virginie_ and Saint-Pierre,—“One huge motionless cloud”
      (say, of Sorrow and Indignation) “girdles our whole horizon;
      streams up, hairy, copper-edged, over a sky of the colour of
      lead.” Motionless itself; but “small clouds” (as exiled
      Parlements and suchlike), “parting from it, fly over the zenith,
      with the velocity of birds:”—till at last, with one loud howl,
      the whole Four Winds be dashed together, and all the world
      exclaim, There is the tornado! _Tout le monde s’écria, Voilà
      l’ouragan!_

      For the rest, in such circumstances, the Successive Loan, very
      naturally, remains unfilled; neither, indeed, can that impost of
      the Second Twentieth, at least not on “strict valuation,” be
      levied to good purpose: “Lenders,” says Weber, in his hysterical
      vehement manner, “are afraid of ruin; tax-gatherers of hanging.”
      The very Clergy turn away their face: convoked in Extraordinary
      Assembly, they afford no gratuitous gift (_don gratuit_),—if it
      be not that of advice; here too instead of cash is clamour for
      States-General.[94]

      O Loménie-Brienne, with thy poor flimsy mind all bewildered, and
      now “three actual cauteries” on thy worn-out body; who art like
      to die of inflamation, provocation, milk-diet, _dartres vives_
      and _maladie_—(best untranslated);[95] and presidest over a
      France with innumerable _actual cauteries_, which also is dying
      of inflammation and the rest! Was it wise to quit the bosky
      verdures of Brienne, and thy new ashlar Château there, and what
      it held, for _this?_ Soft were those shades and lawns; sweet the
      hymns of Poetasters, the blandishments of high-rouged Graces:[96]
      and always this and the other Philosophe Morellet (nothing
      deeming himself or thee a questionable Sham-Priest) could be so
      happy in making happy:—and also (hadst thou known it), in the
      Military School hard by there sat, studying mathematics, a
      dusky-complexioned taciturn Boy, under the name of: NAPOLEON
      BONAPARTE!—With fifty years of effort, and one final dead-lift
      struggle, thou hast made an exchange! Thou hast got thy robe of
      office,—as Hercules had his Nessus’-shirt.

      On the 13th of July of this 1788, there fell, on the very edge of
      harvest, the most frightful hailstorm; scattering into wild waste
      the Fruits of the Year; which had otherwise suffered grievously
      by drought. For sixty leagues round Paris especially, the ruin
      was almost total.[97] To so many other evils, then, there is to
      be added, that of dearth, perhaps of famine.

      Some days before this hailstorm, on the 5th of July; and still
      more decisively some days after it, on the 8th of August,—Loménie
      announces that the States-General are actually to meet in the
      following month of May. Till after which period, this of the
      Plenary Court, and the rest, shall remain _postponed_. Further,
      as in Loménie there is no plan of forming or holding these most
      desirable States-General, “thinkers are invited” to furnish him
      with one,—through the medium of discussion by the public press!

      What could a poor Minister do? There are still ten months of
      respite reserved: a sinking pilot will fling out all things, his
      very biscuit-bags, lead, log, compass and quadrant, before
      flinging out _himself_. It is on this principle, of sinking, and
      the incipient delirium of despair, that we explain likewise the
      almost miraculous “invitation to thinkers.” Invitation to Chaos
      to be so kind as build, out of its tumultuous drift-wood, an Ark
      of Escape for him! In these cases, not invitation but command has
      usually proved serviceable.—The Queen stood, that evening,
      pensive, in a window, with her face turned towards the Garden.
      The _Chef de Gobelet_ had followed her with an obsequious cup of
      coffee; and then retired till it were sipped. Her Majesty
      beckoned Dame Campan to approach: ‘_Grand Dieu!_’ murmured she,
      with the cup in her hand, ‘what a piece of news will be made
      public today! The King grants States-General.’ Then raising her
      eyes to Heaven (if Campan were not mistaken), she added: ‘’Tis a
      first beat of the drum, of ill-omen for France. This Noblesse
      will ruin us.’[98]

      During all that hatching of the Plenary Court, while Lamoignon
      looked so mysterious, Besenval had kept asking him one question:
      Whether they had cash? To which as Lamoignon always answered (on
      the faith of Loménie) that the cash was safe, judicious Besenval
      rejoined that then all was safe. Nevertheless, the melancholy
      fact is, that the royal coffers are almost getting literally void
      of coin. Indeed, apart from all other things this “invitation to
      thinkers,” and the great change now at hand are enough to “arrest
      the circulation of capital,” and forward only that of pamphlets.
      A few thousand gold louis are now all of money or money’s worth
      that remains in the King’s Treasury. With another movement as of
      desperation, Loménie invites Necker to come and be Controller of
      Finances! Necker has other work in view than controlling Finances
      for Loménie: with a dry refusal he stands taciturn; awaiting his
      time.

      What shall a desperate Prime Minister do? He has grasped at the
      strongbox of the King’s Theatre: some Lottery had been set on
      foot for those sufferers by the hailstorm; in his extreme
      necessity, Loménie lays hands even on this.[99] To make provision
      for the passing day, on any terms, will soon be impossible.—On
      the 16th of August, poor Weber heard, at Paris and Versailles,
      hawkers, “with a hoarse stifled tone of voice (_voix étouffée,
      sourde_)” drawling and snuffling, through the streets, an _Edict
      concerning Payments_ (such was the soft title Rivarol had
      contrived for it): all payments at the Royal Treasury shall be
      made henceforth, three-fifths in Cash, and the remaining
      two-fifths—in Paper bearing interest! Poor Weber almost swooned
      at the sound of these cracked voices, with their bodeful
      raven-note; and will never forget the effect it had on him.[100]

      But the effect on Paris, on the world generally? From the dens of
      Stock-brokerage, from the heights of Political Economy, of
      Neckerism and Philosophism; from all articulate and inarticulate
      throats, rise hootings and howlings, such as ear had not yet
      heard. Sedition itself may be imminent! Monseigneur d’Artois,
      moved by Duchess Polignac, feels called to wait upon her Majesty;
      and explain frankly what crisis matters stand in. “The Queen
      wept;” Brienne himself wept;—for it is now visible and palpable
      that he must go.

      Remains only that the Court, to whom his manners and garrulities
      were always agreeable, shall make his fall soft. The grasping old
      man has already got his Archbishopship of Toulouse exchanged for
      the richer one of Sens: and now, in this hour of pity, he shall
      have the Coadjutorship for his nephew (hardly yet of due age); a
      Dameship of the Palace for his niece; a Regiment for her husband;
      for himself a red Cardinal’s-hat, a _Coupe de Bois_ (cutting from
      the royal forests), and on the whole “from five to six hundred
      thousand livres of revenue:”[101] finally, his Brother, the Comte
      de Brienne, shall still continue War-minister. Buckled-round with
      such bolsters and huge featherbeds of Promotion, let him now fall
      as soft as he can!

      And so Loménie departs: rich if Court-titles and Money-bonds can
      enrich him; but if these cannot, perhaps the poorest of all
      extant men. “Hissed at by the people of Versailles,” he drives
      forth to Jardi; southward to Brienne,—for recovery of health.
      Then to Nice, to Italy; but shall return; shall glide to and fro,
      tremulous, faint-twinkling, fallen on awful times: till the
      Guillotine—snuff out his weak existence? Alas, worse: for it is
      _blown_ out, or choked out, foully, pitiably, on the way to the
      Guillotine! In his Palace of Sens, rude Jacobin Bailiffs made him
      drink with them from his own wine-cellars, feast with them from
      his own larder; and on the morrow morning, the miserable old man
      lies dead. This is the end of Prime Minister, Cardinal Archbishop
      Loménie de Brienne. Flimsier mortal was seldom fated to do as
      weighty a mischief; to have a life as despicable-envied, an exit
      as frightful. _Fired_, as the phrase is, with ambition: blown,
      like a kindled rag, the sport of winds, not this way, not that
      way, but of all ways, straight towards _such_ a
      powder-mine,—which he kindled! Let us pity the hapless Loménie;
      and forgive him; and, as soon as possible, forget him.


      Chapter 1.3.IX.
      Burial with Bonfire.

      Besenval, during these extraordinary operations, of Payment
      two-fifths in Paper, and change of Prime Minister, had been out
      on a tour through his District of Command; and indeed, for the
      last months, peacefully drinking the waters of Contrexeville.
      Returning now, in the end of August, towards Moulins, and
      “knowing nothing,” he arrives one evening at Langres; finds the
      whole Town in a state of uproar (_grande rumeur_). Doubtless some
      sedition; a thing too common in these days! He alights
      nevertheless; inquires of a “man tolerably dressed,” what the
      matter is?—‘How?’ answers the man, ‘you have not heard the news?
      The Archbishop is thrown out, and M. Necker is recalled; and all
      is going to go well!’[102]

      Such _rumeur_ and vociferous acclaim has risen round M. Necker,
      ever from “that day when he issued from the Queen’s Apartments,”
      a nominated Minister. It was on the 24th of August: “the
      galleries of the Château, the courts, the streets of Versailles;
      in few hours, the Capital; and, as the news flew, all France,
      resounded with the cry of _Vive le Roi! Vive M. Necker!_[103] In
      Paris indeed it unfortunately got the length of turbulence.”
      Petards, rockets go off, in the Place Dauphine, more than enough.
      A “wicker Figure (_Mannequin d’osier_),” in Archbishop’s stole,
      made emblematically, three-fifths of it satin, two-fifths of it
      paper, is promenaded, not in silence, to the popular
      judgment-bar; is doomed; shriven by a mock Abbé de Vermond; then
      solemnly consumed by fire, at the foot of Henri’s Statue on the
      Pont Neuf;—with such petarding and huzzaing that Chevalier Dubois
      and his City-watch see good finally to make a charge (more or
      less ineffectual); and there wanted not burning of sentry-boxes,
      forcing of guard-houses, and also “dead bodies thrown into the
      Seine over-night,” to avoid new effervescence.[104]

      Parlements therefore shall return from exile: Plenary Court,
      Payment two-fifths in Paper have vanished; gone off in smoke, at
      the foot of Henri’s Statue. States-General (with a Political
      Millennium) are now certain; nay, it shall be announced, in our
      fond haste, for January next: and all, as the Langres man said,
      is “going to go.”

      To the prophetic glance of Besenval, one other thing is too
      apparent: that Friend Lamoignon cannot keep his Keepership.
      Neither he nor War-minister Comte de Brienne! Already old Foulon,
      with an eye to be war-minister himself, is making underground
      movements. This is that same Foulon named _âme damnée du
      Parlement;_ a man grown gray in treachery, in griping,
      projecting, intriguing and iniquity: who once when it was
      objected, to some finance-scheme of his, ‘What will the people
      do?’—made answer, in the fire of discussion, ‘The people may eat
      grass:’ hasty words, which fly abroad irrevocable,—and will send
      back tidings!

      Foulon, to the relief of the world, fails on this occasion; and
      will always fail. Nevertheless it steads not M. de Lamoignon. It
      steads not the doomed man that he have interviews with the King;
      and be “seen to return _radieux_,” emitting _rays_. Lamoignon is
      the hated of Parlements: Comte de Brienne is Brother to the
      Cardinal Archbishop. The 24th of August has been; and the 14th
      September is not yet, when they two, as their great Principal had
      done, descend,—made to fall _soft_, like him.

      And now, as if the last burden had been rolled from its heart,
      and assurance were at length perfect, Paris bursts forth anew
      into extreme jubilee. The Basoche rejoices aloud, that the foe of
      Parlements is fallen; Nobility, Gentry, Commonalty have rejoiced;
      and rejoice. Nay now, with new emphasis, Rascality itself,
      starting suddenly from its dim depths, will arise and do it,—for
      down even thither the new Political Evangel, in some rude version
      or other, has penetrated. It is Monday, the 14th of September
      1788: Rascality assembles anew, in great force, in the Place
      Dauphine; lets off petards, fires blunderbusses, to an incredible
      extent, without interval, for eighteen hours. There is again a
      wicker Figure, “_Mannequin_ of osier:” the centre of endless
      howlings. Also Necker’s Portrait snatched, or purchased, from
      some Printshop, is borne processionally, aloft on a perch, with
      huzzas;—an example to be remembered.

      But chiefly on the Pont Neuf, where the Great Henri, in bronze,
      rides sublime; there do the crowds gather. All passengers must
      stop, till they have bowed to the People’s King, and said
      audibly: _Vive Henri Quatre; au diable Lamoignon!_ No carriage
      but must stop; not even that of his Highness d’Orléans. Your
      coach-doors are opened: Monsieur will please to put forth his
      head and bow; or even, if refractory, to alight altogether, and
      kneel: from Madame a wave of her plumes, a smile of her fair
      face, there where she sits, shall suffice;—and surely a coin or
      two (to buy _fusées_) were not unreasonable from the Upper
      Classes, friends of Liberty? In this manner it proceeds for days;
      in such rude horse-play,—not without kicks. The City-watch can do
      nothing; hardly save its own skin: for the last twelve-month, as
      we have sometimes seen, it has been a kind of pastime to _hunt_
      the Watch. Besenval indeed is at hand with soldiers; but they
      have orders to avoid firing, and are not prompt to stir.

      On Monday morning the explosion of petards began: and now it is
      near midnight of Wednesday; and the “wicker _Mannequin_” is to be
      buried,—apparently in the Antique fashion. Long rows of torches,
      following it, move towards the Hôtel Lamoignon; but “a servant of
      mine” (Besenval’s) has run to give warning, and there are
      soldiers come. Gloomy Lamoignon is not to die by conflagration,
      or this night; not yet for a year, and then by gunshot (suicidal
      or accidental is unknown).[105] Foiled Rascality burns its
      “Mannikin of osier,” under his windows; “tears up the
      sentry-box,” and rolls off: to try Brienne; to try Dubois Captain
      of the Watch. Now, however, all is bestirring itself; Gardes
      Françaises, Invalides, Horse-patrol: the Torch Procession is met
      with sharp shot, with the thrusting of bayonets, the slashing of
      sabres. Even Dubois makes a charge, with that Cavalry of his, and
      the cruelest charge of all: “there are a great many killed and
      wounded.” Not without clangour, complaint; subsequent criminal
      trials, and official persons dying of heartbreak![106] So,
      however, with steel-besom, Rascality is brushed back into its dim
      depths, and the streets are swept clear.

      Not for a century and half had Rascality ventured to step forth
      in this fashion; not for so long, showed its huge rude lineaments
      in the light of day. A Wonder and new Thing: as yet gamboling
      merely, in awkward Brobdingnag sport, not without quaintness;
      hardly in anger: yet in its huge half-vacant laugh lurks a shade
      of grimness,—which could unfold itself!

      However, the thinkers invited by Loménie are now far on with
      their pamphlets: States-General, on one plan or another, will
      infallibly meet; if not in January, as was once hoped, yet at
      latest in May. Old Duke de Richelieu, moribund in these autumn
      days, opens his eyes once more, murmuring, ‘What would Louis
      Fourteenth’ (whom he remembers) ‘have said!’—then closes them
      again, forever, before the evil time.


      BOOK 1.IV.
      STATES-GENERAL


      Chapter 1.4.I.
      The Notables Again.

      The universal prayer, therefore, is to be fulfilled! Always in
      days of national perplexity, when wrong abounded and help was
      not, this remedy of States-General was called for; by a
      Malesherbes, nay by a Fénelon;[107] even Parlements calling for
      it were “escorted with blessings.” And now behold it is
      vouchsafed us; States-General shall verily be!

      To say, let States-General be, was easy; to say in what manner
      they shall be, is not so easy. Since the year of 1614, there have
      no States-General met in France, all trace of them has vanished
      from the living habits of men. Their structure, powers, methods
      of procedure, which were never in any measure fixed, have now
      become wholly a vague possibility. Clay which the potter may
      shape, this way or that:—say rather, the twenty-five millions of
      potters; for so many have now, more or less, a vote in it! How to
      shape the States-General? There is a problem. Each
      Body-corporate, each privileged, each organised Class has secret
      hopes of its own in that matter; and also secret misgivings of
      its own,—for, behold, this monstrous twenty-million Class,
      hitherto the dumb sheep which these others had to agree about the
      manner of shearing, is now also arising with hopes! It has ceased
      or is ceasing to be dumb; it speaks through Pamphlets, or at
      least brays and growls behind them, in unison,—increasing
      wonderfully their volume of sound.

      As for the Parlement of Paris, it has at once declared for the
      “old form of 1614.” Which form had this advantage, that the
      _Tiers Etat_, Third Estate, or Commons, figured there as a show
      mainly: whereby the Noblesse and Clergy had but to avoid quarrel
      between themselves, and decide unobstructed what _they_ thought
      best. Such was the clearly declared opinion of the Paris
      Parlement. But, being met by a storm of mere hooting and howling
      from all men, such opinion was blown straightway to the winds;
      and the popularity of the Parlement along with it,—never to
      return. The Parlements part, we said above, was as good as
      played. Concerning which, however, there is this further to be
      noted: the proximity of dates. It was on the 22nd of September
      that the Parlement returned from “vacation” or “exile in its
      estates;” to be reinstalled amid boundless jubilee from all
      Paris. Precisely next day it was, that this same Parlement came
      to its “clearly declared opinion:” and then on the morrow after
      that, you behold it “covered with outrages”; its outer court, one
      vast sibilation, and the glory departed from it for
      evermore.[108] A popularity of twenty-four hours was, in those
      times, no uncommon allowance.

      On the other hand, how superfluous was that invitation of
      Loménie’s: the invitation to thinkers! Thinkers and unthinkers,
      by the million, are spontaneously at their post, doing what is in
      them. Clubs labour: _Societe Publicole;_ Breton Club; Enraged
      Club, _Club des Enrages_. Likewise Dinner-parties in the Palais
      Royal; your Mirabeaus, Talleyrands dining there, in company with
      Chamforts, Morellets, with Duponts and hot Parlementeers, not
      without object! For a certain _Necker_ean Lion’s-provider, whom
      one could name, assembles them there;[109]—or even their own
      private determination to have dinner does it. And then as to
      Pamphlets—in figurative language; “it is a sheer snowing of
      pamphlets; like to snow up the Government thoroughfares!” Now is
      the time for Friends of Freedom; sane, and even insane.

      Count, or self-styled Count, d’Aintrigues, “the young
      Languedocian gentleman,” with perhaps Chamfort the Cynic to help
      him, rises into furor almost Pythic; highest, where many are
      high.[110] Foolish young Languedocian gentleman; who himself so
      soon, “emigrating among the foremost,” must fly indignant over
      the marches, with the _Contrat Social_ in his pocket,—towards
      outer darkness, thankless intriguings, _ignis-fatuus_ hoverings,
      and death by the stiletto! Abbé Sieyes has left Chartres
      Cathedral, and canonry and book-shelves there; has let his
      tonsure grow, and come to Paris with a secular head, of the most
      irrefragable sort, to ask three questions, and answer them: _What
      is the Third Estate? All.—What has it hitherto been in our form
      of government? Nothing.—What does it want? To become Something._

      D’Orléans,—for be sure he, on his way to Chaos, is in the thick
      of this,—promulgates his _Deliberations;_[111] fathered by him,
      written by Laclos of the _Liaisons Dangereuses._ The result of
      which comes out simply: “The Third Estate is the Nation.” On the
      other hand, Monseigneur d’Artois, with other Princes of the
      Blood, publishes, in solemn _Memorial_ to the King, that if such
      things be listened to, Privilege, Nobility, Monarchy, Church,
      State and Strongbox are in danger.[112] In danger truly: and yet
      if you do not listen, are they out of danger? It is the voice of
      all France, this sound that rises. Immeasurable, manifold; as the
      sound of outbreaking waters: wise were he who knew what to do in
      it,—if not to fly to the mountains, and hide himself?

      How an ideal, all-seeing Versailles Government, sitting there on
      such principles, in such an environment, would have determined to
      demean itself at this new juncture, may even yet be a question.
      Such a Government would have felt too well that its long task was
      now drawing to a close; that, under the guise of these
      States-General, at length inevitable, a new omnipotent Unknown of
      Democracy was coming into being; in presence of which no
      Versailles Government either could or should, except in a
      provisory character, continue extant. To enact which provisory
      character, so unspeakably important, might its whole faculties
      but have sufficed; and so a peaceable, gradual, well-conducted
      Abdication and _Domine-dimittas_ have been the issue!

      This for our ideal, all-seeing Versailles Government. But for the
      actual irrational Versailles Government? Alas, that is a
      Government existing there only for its own behoof: without right,
      except possession; and now also without might. It foresees
      nothing, sees nothing; has not so much as a purpose, but has only
      purposes,—and the instinct whereby all that exists will struggle
      to keep existing. Wholly a vortex; in which vain counsels,
      hallucinations, falsehoods, intrigues, and imbecilities whirl;
      like withered rubbish in the meeting of winds! The Œil-de-Bœuf
      has its irrational hopes, if also its fears. Since hitherto all
      States-General have done as good as nothing, why should these do
      more? The Commons, indeed, look dangerous; but on the whole is
      not revolt, unknown now for five generations, an impossibility?
      The Three Estates can, by management, be set against each other;
      the Third will, as heretofore, join with the King; will, out of
      mere spite and self-interest, be eager to tax and vex the other
      two. The other two are thus delivered bound into our hands, that
      we may fleece them likewise. Whereupon, money being got, and the
      Three Estates all in quarrel, dismiss them, and let the future go
      as it can! As good Archbishop Loménie was wont to say: ‘There are
      so many accidents; and it needs but one to save us.’—How many to
      destroy us?

      Poor Necker in the midst of such an anarchy does what is possible
      for him. He looks into it with obstinately hopeful face; lauds
      the known rectitude of the kingly mind; listens indulgent-like to
      the known perverseness of the queenly and courtly;—emits if any
      proclamation or regulation, one favouring the _Tiers Etat;_ but
      settling nothing; hovering afar off rather, and advising all
      things to settle themselves. The grand questions, for the
      present, have got reduced to two: the Double Representation, and
      the Vote by Head. Shall the Commons have a “double
      representation,” that is to say, have as many members as the
      Noblesse and Clergy united? Shall the States-General, when once
      assembled, vote and deliberate, in one body, or in three separate
      bodies; “vote by head, or vote by class,”—_ordre_ as they call
      it? These are the moot-points now filling all France with jargon,
      logic and eleutheromania. To terminate which, Necker bethinks
      him, Might not a second Convocation of the Notables be fittest?
      Such second Convocation is resolved on.

      On the 6th of November of this year 1788, these Notables
      accordingly have reassembled; after an interval of some eighteen
      months. They are Calonne’s old Notables, the same Hundred and
      Forty-four,—to show one’s impartiality; likewise to save time.
      They sit there once again, in their Seven Bureaus, in the hard
      winter weather: it is the hardest winter seen since 1709;
      thermometer below zero of Fahrenheit, Seine River frozen
      over.[113] Cold, scarcity and eleutheromaniac clamour: a changed
      world since these Notables were “organed out,” in May gone a
      year! They shall see now whether, under their Seven Princes of
      the Blood, in their Seven Bureaus, they can settle the
      moot-points.

      To the surprise of Patriotism, these Notables, once so patriotic,
      seem to incline the wrong way; towards the anti-patriotic side.
      They stagger at the Double Representation, at the Vote by Head:
      there is not affirmative decision; there is mere debating, and
      that not with the best aspects. For, indeed, were not these
      Notables themselves mostly of the Privileged Classes? They
      clamoured once; now they have their misgivings; make their
      dolorous representations. Let them vanish, ineffectual; and
      return no more! They vanish after a month’s session, on this 12th
      of December, year 1788: the _last_ terrestrial Notables, not to
      reappear any other time, in the History of the World.

      And so, the clamour still continuing, and the Pamphlets; and
      nothing but patriotic Addresses, louder and louder, pouting in on
      us from all corners of France,—Necker himself some fortnight
      after, before the year is yet done, has to present his
      _Report_,[114] recommending at his own risk that same Double
      Representation; nay almost enjoining it, so loud is the jargon
      and eleutheromania. What dubitating, what circumambulating! These
      whole six noisy months (for it began with Brienne in July,) has
      not _Report_ followed _Report_, and one Proclamation flown in the
      teeth of the other?[115]

      However, that first moot-point, as we see, is now settled. As for
      the second, that of voting by Head or by Order, it unfortunately
      is still left hanging. It hangs there, we may say, between the
      Privileged Orders and the Unprivileged; as a ready-made
      battle-prize, and necessity of war, from the very first: which
      battle-prize whosoever seizes it—may thenceforth bear as
      battle-flag, with the best omens!

      But so, at least, by Royal Edict of the 24th of January,[116]
      does it finally, to impatient expectant France, become not only
      indubitable that National Deputies _are_ to meet, but possible
      (so far and hardly farther has the royal Regulation gone) to
      begin electing them.


      Chapter 1.4.II.
      The Election.

      Up, then, and be doing! The royal signal-word flies through
      France, as through vast forests the rushing of a mighty wind. At
      Parish Churches, in Townhalls, and every House of Convocation; by
      Bailliages, by Seneschalsies, in whatsoever form men convene;
      there, with confusion enough, are Primary Assemblies forming. To
      elect your Electors; such is the form prescribed: then to draw up
      your “Writ of Plaints and Grievances (_Cahier de plaintes et
      doléances_),” of which latter there is no lack.

      With such virtue works this Royal January Edict; as it rolls
      rapidly, in its leathern mails, along these frostbound highways,
      towards all the four winds. Like some _fiat_, or magic
      spell-word;—which such things do resemble! For always, as it
      sounds out “at the market-cross,” accompanied with trumpet-blast;
      presided by Bailli, Seneschal, or other minor Functionary, with
      beef-eaters; or, in country churches is droned forth after
      sermon, “_au prône des messes paroissales;_” and is registered,
      posted and let fly over all the world,—you behold how this
      multitudinous French People, so long simmering and buzzing in
      eager expectancy, begins heaping and shaping itself into organic
      groups. Which organic groups, again, hold smaller organic
      grouplets: the inarticulate buzzing becomes articulate speaking
      and acting. By Primary Assembly, and then by Secondary; by
      “successive elections,” and infinite elaboration and scrutiny,
      according to prescribed process—shall the genuine “Plaints and
      Grievances” be at length got to paper; shall the fit National
      Representative be at length laid hold of.

      How the whole People shakes itself, as if it had one life; and,
      in thousand-voiced rumour, announces that it is awake, suddenly
      out of long death-sleep, and will thenceforth sleep no more! The
      long looked-for has come at last; wondrous news, of Victory,
      Deliverance, Enfranchisement, sounds magical through every heart.
      To the proud strong man it has come; whose strong hands shall no
      more be gyved; to whom boundless unconquered continents lie
      disclosed. The weary day-drudge has heard of it; the beggar with
      his crusts moistened in tears. What! To us also has hope reached;
      down even to us? Hunger and hardship are not to be eternal? The
      bread we extorted from the rugged glebe, and, with the toil of
      our sinews, reaped and ground, and kneaded into loaves, was not
      wholly for another, then; but we also shall eat of it, and be
      filled? Glorious news (answer the prudent elders), but all-too
      unlikely!—Thus, at any rate, may the lower people, who pay no
      money-taxes and have no right to vote,[117] assiduously crowd
      round those that do; and most Halls of Assembly, within doors and
      without, seem animated enough.

      Paris, alone of Towns, is to have Representatives; the number of
      them twenty. Paris is divided into Sixty Districts; each of which
      (assembled in some church, or the like) is choosing two Electors.
      Official deputations pass from District to District, for all is
      inexperience as yet, and there is endless consulting. The streets
      swarm strangely with busy crowds, pacific yet restless and
      loquacious; at intervals, is seen the gleam of military muskets;
      especially about the Palais, where Parlement, once more on duty,
      sits querulous, almost tremulous.

      Busy is the French world! In those great days, what poorest
      speculative craftsman but will leave his workshop; if not to
      vote, yet to assist in voting? On all highways is a rustling and
      bustling. Over the wide surface of France, ever and anon, through
      the spring months, as the Sower casts his corn abroad upon the
      furrows, sounds of congregating and dispersing; of crowds in
      deliberation, acclamation, voting by ballot and by voice,—rise
      discrepant towards the ear of Heaven. To which political
      phenomena add this economical one, that Trade is stagnant, and
      also Bread getting dear; for before the rigorous winter there
      was, as we said, a rigorous summer, with drought, and on the 13th
      of July with destructive hail. What a fearful day! all cried
      while that tempest fell. Alas, the next anniversary of it will be
      a worse.[118] Under such aspects is France electing National
      Representatives.

      The incidents and specialties of these Elections belong not to
      Universal, but to Local or Parish History: for which reason let
      not the new troubles of Grenoble or Besancon; the bloodshed on
      the streets of Rennes, and consequent march thither of the Breton
      “Young Men” with Manifesto by their “Mothers, Sisters and
      Sweethearts;”[119] nor suchlike, detain us here. It is the same
      sad history everywhere; with superficial variations. A reinstated
      Parlement (as at Besancon), which stands astonished at this
      Behemoth of a States-General it had itself evoked, starts
      forward, with more or less audacity, to fix a thorn in its nose;
      and, alas, is instantaneously struck down, and hurled quite
      out,—for the new popular force can use not only arguments but
      brickbats! Or else, and perhaps combined with this, it is an
      order of Noblesse (as in Brittany), which will beforehand tie up
      the Third Estate, that it harm not the old privileges. In which
      act of tying up, never so skilfully set about, there is likewise
      no possibility of prospering; but the Behemoth-Briareus snaps
      your cords like green rushes. Tie up? Alas, Messieurs! And then,
      as for your chivalry rapiers, valour and wager-of-battle, think
      one moment, how can that answer? The plebeian heart too has red
      life in it, which changes not to paleness at glance even of you;
      and “the six hundred Breton gentlemen assembled in arms, for
      seventy-two hours, in the Cordeliers’ Cloister, at Rennes,”—have
      to come out again, _wiser_ than they entered. For the Nantes
      Youth, the Angers Youth, all Brittany was astir; “mothers,
      sisters and sweethearts” shrieking after them, _March!_ The
      Breton Noblesse must even let the mad world have its way.[120]

      In other Provinces, the Noblesse, with equal goodwill, finds it
      better to stick to Protests, to well-redacted “_Cahiers_ of
      grievances,” and satirical writings and speeches. Such is
      partially their course in Provence; whither indeed Gabriel Honoré
      Riquetti Comte de Mirabeau has rushed down from Paris, to speak a
      word in season. In Provence, the Privileged, backed by their Aix
      Parlement, discover that such novelties, enjoined though they be
      by Royal Edict, tend to National detriment; and what is still
      more indisputable, “to impair the dignity of the Noblesse.”
      Whereupon Mirabeau protesting aloud, this same Noblesse, amid
      huge tumult within doors and without, flatly determines to expel
      him from their Assembly. No other method, not even that of
      successive duels, would answer with him, the obstreperous
      fierce-glaring man. Expelled he accordingly is.

      “In all countries, in all times,” exclaims he departing, “the
      Aristocrats have implacably pursued every friend of the People;
      and with tenfold implacability, if such a one were himself born
      of the Aristocracy. It was thus that the last of the Gracchi
      perished, by the hands of the Patricians. But he, being struck
      with the mortal stab, flung dust towards heaven, and called on
      the Avenging Deities; and from this dust there was born
      Marius,—Marius not so illustrious for exterminating the Cimbri,
      as for overturning in Rome the tyranny of the Nobles.”[121]
      Casting up _which_ new curious handful of dust (through the
      Printing-press), to breed what it can and may, Mirabeau stalks
      forth into the Third Estate.

      That he now, to ingratiate himself with this Third Estate,
      “opened a cloth-shop in Marseilles,” and for moments became a
      furnishing tailor, or even the fable that he did so, is to us
      always among the pleasant memorabilities of this era. Stranger
      Clothier never wielded the ell-wand, and rent webs for men, or
      fractional parts of men. The _Fils Adoptif_ is indignant at such
      disparaging fable,[122]—which nevertheless was widely believed in
      those days.[123] But indeed, if Achilles, in the heroic ages,
      killed mutton, why should not Mirabeau, in the unheroic ones,
      measure broadcloth?

      More authentic are his triumph-progresses through that disturbed
      district, with mob jubilee, flaming torches, “windows hired for
      two louis,” and voluntary guard of a hundred men. He is Deputy
      Elect, both of Aix and of Marseilles; but will prefer Aix. He has
      opened his far-sounding voice, the depths of his far-sounding
      soul; he can quell (such virtue is in a spoken word) the
      pride-tumults of the rich, the hunger-tumults of the poor; and
      wild multitudes move under him, as under the moon do billows of
      the sea: he has become a world compeller, and ruler over men.

      One other incident and specialty we note; with how different an
      interest! It is of the Parlement of Paris; which starts forward,
      like the others (only with less audacity, seeing better how it
      lay), to nose-ring that Behemoth of a States-General. Worthy
      Doctor Guillotin, respectable practitioner in Paris, has drawn up
      his little “Plan of a _Cahier of doléances_;”—as had he not,
      having the wish and gift, the clearest liberty to do? He is
      getting the people to sign it; whereupon the surly Parlement
      summons him to give an account of himself. He goes; but with all
      Paris at his heels; which floods the outer courts, and copiously
      signs the _Cahier_ even there, while the Doctor is giving account
      of himself within! The Parlement cannot too soon dismiss
      Guillotin, with compliments; to be borne home shoulder-high.[124]
      This respectable Guillotin we hope to behold once more, and
      perhaps only once; the Parlement not even once, but let it be
      engulphed unseen by us.

      Meanwhile such things, cheering as they are, tend little to cheer
      the national creditor, or indeed the creditor of any kind. In the
      midst of universal portentous doubt, what certainty can seem so
      certain as money in the purse, and the wisdom of keeping it
      there? Trading Speculation, Commerce of all kinds, has as far as
      possible come to a dead pause; and the hand of the industrious
      lies idle in his bosom. Frightful enough, when now the rigour of
      seasons has also done its part, and to scarcity of work is added
      scarcity of food! In the opening spring, there come rumours of
      forestalment, there come King’s Edicts, Petitions of bakers
      against millers; and at length, in the month of April—troops of
      ragged Lackalls, and fierce cries of starvation! These are the
      thrice-famed _Brigands:_ an actual existing quotity of persons:
      who, long reflected and reverberated through so many millions of
      heads, as in concave multiplying mirrors, become a whole Brigand
      World; and, like a kind of Supernatural Machinery wondrously move
      the Epos of the Revolution. The Brigands are here: the Brigands
      are there; the Brigands are coming! Not otherwise sounded the
      clang of Phoebus Apollo’s silver bow, scattering pestilence and
      pale terror; for this clang too was of the imagination;
      preternatural; and it too walked in formless immeasurability,
      _having made itself like to the Night_ (νυκτὶ ἐοικώς.)!

      But remark at least, for the first time, the singular empire of
      Suspicion, in those lands, in those days. If poor famishing men
      shall, prior to death, gather in groups and crowds, as the poor
      fieldfares and plovers do in bitter weather, were it but that
      they may chirp mournfully together, and misery look in the eyes
      of misery; if famishing men (what famishing fieldfares cannot do)
      should discover, once congregated, that they need not die while
      food is in the land, since they are many, and with empty wallets
      have right hands: in all this, what need were there of
      Preternatural Machinery? To most people none; but not to French
      people, in a time of Revolution. These Brigands (as Turgot’s also
      were, fourteen years ago) have all been set on; enlisted, though
      without tuck of drum,—by Aristocrats, by Democrats, by D’Orléans,
      D’Artois, and enemies of the public weal. Nay Historians, to this
      day, will prove it by one argument: these Brigands pretending to
      have no victual, nevertheless contrive to drink, nay, have been
      seen drunk.[125] An unexampled fact! But on the whole, may we not
      predict that a people, with such a width of Credulity and of
      Incredulity (the proper union of which makes Suspicion, and
      indeed unreason generally), will see Shapes enough of Immortals
      fighting in its battle-ranks, and never want for Epical
      Machinery?

      Be this as it may, the Brigands are clearly got to Paris, in
      considerable multitudes:[126] with sallow faces, lank hair (the
      true enthusiast complexion), with sooty rags; and also with large
      clubs, which they smite angrily against the pavement! These
      mingle in the Election tumult; would fain sign Guillotin’s
      _Cahier_, or any _Cahier_ or Petition whatsoever, could they but
      write. Their enthusiast complexion, the smiting of their sticks
      bodes little good to any one; least of all to rich
      master-manufacturers of the Suburb Saint-Antoine, with whose
      workmen they consort.


      Chapter 1.4.III.
      Grown Electric.

      But now also National Deputies from all ends of France are in
      Paris, with their commissions, what they call pouvoirs, or
      powers, in their pockets; inquiring, consulting; looking out for
      lodgings at Versailles. The States-General shall open there, if
      not on the First, then surely on the Fourth of May, in grand
      procession and gala. The _Salle des Menus_ is all
      new-carpentered, bedizened for them; their very costume has been
      fixed; a grand controversy which there was, as to “slouch-hats or
      slouched-hats,” for the Commons Deputies, has got as good as
      adjusted. Ever new strangers arrive; loungers, miscellaneous
      persons, officers on furlough,—as the worthy Captain Dampmartin,
      whom we hope to be acquainted with: these also, from all regions,
      have repaired hither, to see what is toward. Our Paris
      Committees, of the Sixty Districts, are busier than ever; it is
      now too clear, the Paris Elections will be late.

      On Monday, the 27th of April, Astronomer Bailly notices that the
      Sieur Réveillon is not at his post. The Sieur Réveillon,
      “extensive Paper Manufacturer of the Rue St. Antoine;” he,
      commonly so punctual, is absent from the Electoral Committee;—and
      even will never reappear there. In those “immense Magazines of
      velvet paper” has aught befallen? Alas, yes! Alas, it is no
      Montgolfier rising there today; but Drudgery, Rascality and the
      Suburb that is rising! Was the Sieur Réveillon, himself once a
      journeyman, heard to say that “a journeyman might live handsomely
      on fifteen _sous_ a-day?” Some sevenpence halfpenny: ’tis a
      slender sum! Or was he only thought, and believed, to be heard
      saying it? By this long chafing and friction it would appear the
      National temper has got _electric_.

      Down in those dark dens, in those dark heads and hungry hearts,
      who knows in what strange figure the new Political Evangel may
      have shaped itself; what miraculous “Communion of Drudges” may be
      getting formed! Enough: grim individuals, soon waxing to grim
      multitudes, and other multitudes crowding to see, beset that
      Paper-Warehouse; demonstrate, in loud ungrammatical language
      (addressed to the passions too), the insufficiency of sevenpence
      halfpenny a-day. The City-watch cannot dissipate them; broils
      arise and bellowings; Réveillon, at his wits’ end, entreats the
      Populace, entreats the authorities. Besenval, now in active
      command, Commandant of Paris, does, towards evening, to
      Réveillon’s earnest prayer, send some thirty Gardes Françaises.
      These clear the street, happily without firing; and take post
      there for the night in hope that it may be all over.[127]

      Not so: on the morrow it is far worse. Saint-Antoine has arisen
      anew, grimmer than ever;—reinforced by the unknown Tatterdemalion
      Figures, with their enthusiast complexion and large sticks. The
      City, through all streets, is flowing thitherward to see: “two
      cartloads of paving-stones, that happened to pass that way” have
      been seized as a visible godsend. Another detachment of Gardes
      Françaises must be sent; Besenval and the Colonel taking earnest
      counsel. Then still another; they hardly, with bayonets and
      menace of bullets, penetrate to the spot. What a sight! A street
      choked up, with lumber, tumult and the endless press of men. A
      Paper-Warehouse eviscerated by axe and fire: mad din of Revolt;
      musket-volleys responded to by yells, by miscellaneous missiles;
      by tiles raining from roof and window,—tiles, execrations and
      slain men!

      The Gardes Françaises like it not, but have to persevere. All day
      it continues, slackening and rallying; the sun is sinking, and
      Saint-Antoine has not yielded. The City flies hither and thither:
      alas, the sound of that musket-volleying booms into the far
      dining-rooms of the Chaussée d’Antin; alters the tone of the
      dinner-gossip there. Captain Dampmartin leaves his wine; goes out
      with a friend or two, to see the fighting. Unwashed men growl on
      him, with murmurs of ‘_À bas les Aristocrates_ (Down with the
      Aristocrats);’ and insult the cross of St. Louis? They elbow him,
      and hustle him; but do not pick his pocket;—as indeed at
      Réveillon’s too there was not the slightest stealing.[128]

      At fall of night, as the thing will not end, Besenval takes his
      resolution: orders out the _Gardes Suisses_ with two pieces of
      artillery. The Swiss Guards shall proceed thither; summon that
      rabble to depart, in the King’s name. If disobeyed, they shall
      load their artillery with grape-shot, visibly to the general eye;
      shall again summon; if again disobeyed, fire,—and keep firing
      “till the last man” be in this manner blasted off, and the street
      clear. With which spirited resolution, as might have been hoped,
      the business is got ended. At sight of the lit matches, of the
      foreign red-coated Switzers, Saint-Antoine dissipates; hastily,
      in the shades of dusk. There is an encumbered street; there are
      “from four to five hundred” dead men. Unfortunate Réveillon has
      found shelter in the Bastille; does therefrom, safe behind stone
      bulwarks, issue, plaint, protestation, explanation, for the next
      month. Bold Besenval has thanks from all the respectable Parisian
      classes; but finds no special notice taken of him at
      Versailles,—a thing the man of true worth is used to.[129]

      But how it originated, this fierce electric sputter and
      explosion? From D’Orléans! cries the Court-party: he, with his
      gold, enlisted these Brigands,—surely in some surprising manner,
      without sound of drum: he raked them in hither, from all corners;
      to ferment and take fire; evil is his good. From the Court! cries
      enlightened Patriotism: it is the cursed gold and wiles of
      Aristocrats that enlisted them; set them upon ruining an innocent
      Sieur Réveillon; to frighten the faint, and disgust men with the
      career of Freedom.

      Besenval, with reluctance, concludes that it came from “the
      English, our natural enemies.” Or, alas, might not one rather
      attribute it to Diana in the shape of Hunger? To some twin
      _Dioscuri_, OPPRESSION and REVENGE; so often seen in the battles
      of men? Poor Lackalls, all betoiled, besoiled, encrusted into dim
      defacement; into whom nevertheless the breath of the Almighty has
      breathed a living soul! To them it is clear only that
      eleutheromaniac Philosophism has yet baked no bread; that
      Patrioti Committee-men will level down to their own level, and no
      lower. Brigands, or whatever they might be, it was bitter earnest
      with them. They bury their dead with the title of _Défenseurs de
      la Patrie_, Martyrs of the good Cause.

      Or shall we say: Insurrection has now served its Apprenticeship;
      and this was its proof-stroke, and no inconclusive one? Its next
      will be a master-stroke; announcing indisputable Mastership to a
      whole astonished world. Let that rock-fortress, Tyranny’s
      stronghold, which they name _Bastille_, or _Building_, as if
      there were no other building,—look to its guns!

      But, in such wise, with primary and secondary Assemblies, and
      _Cahiers_ of Grievances; with motions, congregations of all
      kinds; with much thunder of froth-eloquence, and at last with
      thunder of platoon-musquetry,—does agitated France accomplish its
      Elections. With confused winnowing and sifting, in this rather
      tumultuous manner, it has now (all except some remnants of Paris)
      sifted out the true wheat-grains of National Deputies, Twelve
      Hundred and Fourteen in number; and will forthwith open its
      States-General.


      Chapter 1.4.IV.
      The Procession.

      On the first Saturday of May, it is gala at Versailles; and
      Monday, fourth of the month, is to be a still greater day. The
      Deputies have mostly got thither, and sought out lodgings; and
      are now successively, in long well-ushered files, kissing the
      hand of Majesty in the Château. Supreme Usher de Brézé does not
      give the highest satisfaction: we cannot but observe that in
      ushering Noblesse or Clergy into the anointed Presence, he
      liberally opens _both_ his folding-doors; and on the other hand,
      for members of the Third Estate opens only one! However, there is
      room to enter; Majesty has smiles for all.

      The good Louis welcomes his Honourable Members, with smiles of
      hope. He has prepared for them the Hall of _Menus_, the largest
      near him; and often surveyed the workmen as they went on. A
      spacious Hall: with raised platform for Throne, Court and
      Blood-royal; space for six hundred Commons Deputies in front; for
      half as many Clergy on this hand, and half as many Noblesse on
      that. It has lofty galleries; wherefrom dames of honour,
      splendent in _gaze d’or;_ foreign Diplomacies, and other
      gilt-edged white-frilled individuals to the number of two
      thousand,—may sit and look. Broad passages flow through it; and,
      outside the inner wall, all round it. There are committee-rooms,
      guard-rooms, robing-rooms: really a noble Hall; where upholstery,
      aided by the subject fine-arts, has done its best; and crimson
      tasseled cloths, and emblematic _fleurs-de-lys_ are not wanting.

      The Hall is ready: the very costume, as we said, has been
      settled; and the Commons are not to wear that hated slouch-hat
      (_chapeau clabaud_), but one not quite so slouched (_chapeau
      rabattu_). As for their manner of _working_, when all dressed:
      for their “voting by head or by order” and the rest,—this, which
      it were perhaps still time to settle, and in few hours will be no
      longer time, remains unsettled; hangs dubious in the breast of
      Twelve Hundred men.

      But now finally the Sun, on Monday the 4th of May, has
      risen;—unconcerned, as if it were no special day. And yet, as his
      first rays could strike music from the Memnon’s Statue on the
      Nile, what tones were these, so thrilling, tremulous of
      preparation and foreboding, which he awoke in every bosom at
      Versailles! Huge Paris, in all conceivable and inconceivable
      vehicles, is pouring itself forth; from each Town and Village
      come subsidiary rills; Versailles is a very sea of men. But above
      all, from the Church of St. Louis to the Church of Notre-Dame:
      one vast suspended-billow of Life,—with _spray_ scattered even to
      the chimney-pots! For on chimney-tops too, as over the roofs, and
      up thitherwards on every lamp-iron, sign-post, breakneck coign of
      vantage, sits patriotic Courage; and every window bursts with
      patriotic Beauty: for the Deputies are gathering at St. Louis
      Church; to march in procession to Notre-Dame, and hear sermon.

      Yes, friends, ye may sit and look: boldly or in thought, all
      France, and all Europe, may sit and look; for it is a day like
      few others. Oh, one might weep like Xerxes:—So many serried rows
      sit perched there; like winged creatures, alighted out of Heaven:
      all these, and so many more that follow them, shall have wholly
      fled aloft again, vanishing into the blue Deep; and the memory of
      this day still be fresh. It is the baptism-day of Democracy; sick
      Time has given it birth, the numbered months being run. The
      extreme-unction day of Feudalism! A superannuated System of
      Society, decrepit with toils (for has it not done much; produced
      you, and what ye have and know!)—and with thefts and brawls,
      named glorious-victories; and with profligacies, sensualities,
      and on the whole with dotage and senility,—is now to die: and so,
      with death-throes and birth-throes, a new one is to be born. What
      a work, O Earth and Heavens, what a work! Battles and bloodshed,
      September Massacres, Bridges of Lodi, retreats of Moscow,
      Waterloos, Peterloos, Tenpound Franchises, Tarbarrels and
      Guillotines;—and from this present date, if one might prophesy,
      some two centuries of it still to fight! Two centuries; hardly
      less; before Democracy go through its due, most baleful, stages
      of _Quack_ocracy; and a pestilential World be burnt up, and have
      begun to grow green and young again.

      Rejoice nevertheless, ye Versailles multitudes; to you, from whom
      all this is hid, and glorious end of it is visible. This day,
      sentence of death is pronounced on Shams; judgment of
      resuscitation, were it but far off, is pronounced on Realities.
      This day it is declared aloud, as with a Doom-trumpet, that a
      _Lie is unbelievable_. Believe that, stand by that, if more there
      be not; and let what thing or things soever will follow it
      follow. “Ye can no other; God be your help!” So spake a greater
      than any of you; opening _his_ Chapter of World-History.

      Behold, however! The doors of St. Louis Church flung wide; and
      the Procession of Processions advancing towards Notre-Dame!
      Shouts rend the air; one shout, at which Grecian birds might drop
      dead. It is indeed a stately, solemn sight. The Elected of
      France, and then the Court of France; they are marshalled and
      march there, all in prescribed place and costume. Our Commons “in
      plain black mantle and white cravat;” Noblesse, in gold-worked,
      bright-dyed cloaks of velvet, resplendent, rustling with laces,
      waving with plumes; the Clergy in rochet, alb, or other best
      _pontificalibus:_ lastly comes the King himself, and King’s
      Household, also in their brightest blaze of pomp,—their brightest
      and final one. Some Fourteen Hundred Men blown together from all
      winds, on the deepest errand.

      Yes, in that silent marching mass there lies Futurity enough. No
      symbolic Ark, like the old Hebrews, do these men bear: yet with
      them too is a Covenant; they too preside at a new Era in the
      History of Men. The whole Future is there, and Destiny
      dim-brooding over it; in the hearts and unshaped thoughts of
      these men, it lies illegible, inevitable. Singular to think:
      _they_ have it in them; yet not they, not mortal, only the Eye
      above can read it,—as it shall unfold itself, in fire and
      thunder, of siege, and field-artillery; in the rustling of
      battle-banners, the tramp of hosts, in the glow of burning
      cities, the shriek of strangled nations! Such things lie hidden,
      safe-wrapt in this Fourth day of May;—say rather, had lain in
      some other unknown day, of which this latter is the public fruit
      and outcome. As indeed what wonders lie in every Day,—had we the
      sight, as happily we have not, to decipher it: for is not every
      meanest Day “the conflux of two Eternities!”

      Meanwhile, suppose we too, good Reader, should, as now without
      miracle Muse Clio enables us—take _our_ station also on some
      coign of vantage; and glance momentarily over this Procession,
      and this Life-sea; with far other eyes than the rest do, namely
      with prophetic? We can mount, and stand there, without fear of
      falling.

      As for the Life-sea, or onlooking unnumbered Multitude, it is
      unfortunately all-too dim. Yet as we gaze fixedly, do not
      nameless Figures not a few, which shall not always be nameless,
      disclose themselves; visible or presumable there! Young Baroness
      de Staël—she evidently looks from a window; among older
      honourable women.[130] Her father is Minister, and one of the
      gala personages; to his own eyes the chief one. Young spiritual
      Amazon, thy rest is not there; nor thy loved Father’s: “as
      Malebranche saw all things in God, so M. Necker sees all things
      in Necker,”—a theorem that will not hold.

      But where is the brown-locked, light-behaved, fire-hearted
      Demoiselle Théroigne? Brown eloquent Beauty; who, with thy winged
      words and glances, shalt thrill rough bosoms, whole steel
      battalions, and persuade an Austrian Kaiser,—pike and helm lie
      provided for thee in due season; and, alas, also strait-waistcoat
      and long lodging in the Salpêtrière! Better hadst thou staid in
      native Luxemburg, and been the mother of some brave man’s
      children: but it was not thy task, it was not thy lot.

      Of the rougher sex how, without tongue, or hundred tongues, of
      iron, enumerate the notabilities! Has not Marquis Valadi hastily
      quitted his quaker broadbrim; his Pythagorean Greek in Wapping,
      and the city of Glasgow?[131] De Morande from his _Courrier de
      l’Europe;_ Linguet from his _Annales_, they looked eager through
      the London fog, and became Ex-Editors,—that they might feed the
      guillotine, and have their due. Does Louvet (of _Faublas_) stand
      a-tiptoe? And Brissot, hight De Warville, friend of the Blacks?
      He, with Marquis Condorcet, and Clavière the Genevese “have
      created the _Moniteur_ Newspaper,” or are about creating it. Able
      Editors must give account of such a day.

      Or seest thou with any distinctness, low down probably, not in
      places of honour, a Stanislas Maillard, riding-tipstaff
      (_huissier à cheval_) of the Châtelet; one of the shiftiest of
      men? A Captain Hulin of Geneva, Captain Elie of the Queen’s
      Regiment; both with an air of half-pay? Jourdan, with
      tile-coloured whiskers, not yet with tile-beard; an unjust dealer
      in mules? He shall be, in a few months, Jourdan the Headsman, and
      have other work.

      Surely also, in some place not of honour, stands or sprawls up
      querulous, that he too, though short, may see,—one squalidest
      bleared mortal, redolent of soot and horse-drugs: Jean Paul Marat
      of Neuchâtel! O Marat, Renovator of Human Science, Lecturer on
      Optics; O thou remarkablest Horseleech, once in D’Artois’
      Stables,—as thy bleared soul looks forth, through thy bleared,
      dull-acrid, wo-stricken face, what sees it in all this? Any
      faintest light of hope; like dayspring after Nova-Zembla night?
      Or is it but _blue_ sulphur-light, and spectres; woe, suspicion,
      revenge without end?

      Of Draper Lecointre, how he shut his cloth-shop hard by, and
      stepped forth, one need hardly speak. Nor of Santerre, the
      sonorous Brewer from the Faubourg St. Antoine. Two other Figures,
      and only two, we signalise there. The huge, brawny, Figure;
      through whose black brows, and rude flattened face (_figure
      ecrasée_), there looks a waste energy as of Hercules not yet
      furibund,—he is an esurient, unprovided Advocate; Danton by name:
      him mark. Then that other, his slight-built comrade and
      craft-brother; he with the long curling locks; with the face of
      dingy blackguardism, wondrously irradiated with genius, as if a
      naphtha-lamp burnt within it: that Figure is Camille Desmoulins.
      A fellow of infinite shrewdness, wit, nay humour; one of the
      sprightliest clearest souls in all these millions. Thou poor
      Camille, say of thee what they may, it were but falsehood to
      pretend one did not almost love thee, thou headlong
      lightly-sparkling man! But the brawny, not yet furibund Figure,
      we say, is Jacques Danton; a name that shall be “tolerably known
      in the Revolution.” He is President of the electoral Cordeliers
      District at Paris, or about to be it; and shall open his lungs of
      brass.

      We dwell no longer on the mixed shouting Multitude: for now,
      behold, the Commons Deputies are at hand!

      Which of these Six Hundred individuals, in plain white cravat,
      that have come up to regenerate France, might one guess would
      become their _king?_ For a king or leader they, as all bodies of
      men, must have: be their work what it may, there is one man there
      who, by character, faculty, position, is fittest of all to do it;
      that man, as future not yet elected king, walks there among the
      rest. He with the thick black locks, will it be? With the _hure_,
      as himself calls it, or black _boar’s-head_, fit to be “shaken”
      as a senatorial portent? Through whose shaggy beetle-brows, and
      rough-hewn, seamed, carbuncled face, there look natural ugliness,
      small-pox, incontinence, bankruptcy,—and burning fire of genius;
      like comet-fire glaring fuliginous through murkiest confusions?
      It is _Gabriel Honoré Riquetti de Mirabeau_, the world-compeller;
      man-ruling Deputy of Aix! According to the Baroness de Staël, he
      steps proudly along, though looked at askance here, and shakes
      his black _chevelure_, or lion’s-mane; as if prophetic of great
      deeds.

      Yes, Reader, that is the Type-Frenchman of this epoch; as
      Voltaire was of the last. He is French in his aspirations,
      acquisitions, in his virtues, in his vices; perhaps more French
      than any other man;—and intrinsically such a mass of manhood too.
      Mark him well. The National Assembly were all different without
      that one; nay, he might say with the old Despot: ‘The National
      Assembly? I am that.’

      Of a southern climate, of wild southern blood: for the Riquettis,
      or Arighettis, had to fly from Florence and the Guelfs, long
      centuries ago, and settled in Provence; where from generation to
      generation they have ever approved themselves a peculiar kindred:
      irascible, indomitable, sharp-cutting, true, like the steel they
      wore; of an intensity and activity that sometimes verged towards
      madness, yet did not reach it. One ancient Riquetti, in mad
      fulfilment of a mad vow, chains two Mountains together; and the
      chain, with its “iron star of five rays,” is still to be seen.
      May not a modern Riquetti unchain so much, and set it
      drifting,—which also shall be seen?

      Destiny has work for that swart burly-headed Mirabeau; Destiny
      has watched over him, prepared him from afar. Did not his
      Grandfather, stout _Col-d’Argent_ (Silver-Stock, so they named
      him), shattered and slashed by seven-and-twenty wounds in one
      fell day lie sunk together on the Bridge at Casano; while Prince
      Eugene’s cavalry galloped and regalloped over him,—only the
      flying sergeant had thrown a camp-kettle over that loved head;
      and Vendôme, dropping his spyglass, moaned out, “Mirabeau is
      _dead_, then!” Nevertheless he was not dead: he awoke to breathe,
      and miraculous surgery;—for Gabriel was yet to be. With his
      silver _stock_ he kept his scarred head erect, through long
      years; and wedded; and produced tough Marquis Victor, the _Friend
      of Men_. Whereby at last in the appointed year 1749, this
      long-expected rough-hewn Gabriel Honoré did likewise see the
      light: roughest lion’s-whelp ever littered of that rough breed.
      How the old lion (for our old Marquis too was lion-like, most
      unconquerable, kingly-genial, most perverse) gazed wonderingly on
      his offspring; and determined to train him as no lion had yet
      been! It is in vain, O Marquis! This cub, though thou slay him
      and flay him, will not learn to draw in dogcart of Political
      Economy, and be a _Friend of Men;_ he will not be Thou, must and
      will be Himself, another than Thou. Divorce lawsuits, “whole
      family save one in prison, and three-score _Lettres-de-Cachet_”
      for thy own sole use, do but astonish the world.

      Our Luckless Gabriel, sinned against and sinning, has been in the
      Isle of Rhe, and heard the Atlantic from his tower; in the Castle
      of If, and heard the Mediterranean at Marseilles. He has been in
      the Fortress of Joux; and forty-two months, with hardly clothing
      to his back, in the Dungeon of Vincennes;—all by
      _Lettre-de-Cachet_, from his lion father. He has been in
      Pontarlier Jails (self-constituted prisoner); was noticed fording
      estuaries of the sea (at low water), in flight from the face of
      men. He has pleaded before Aix Parlements (to get back his wife);
      the public gathering on roofs, to see since they could not hear:
      ‘the clatter-teeth (_claque-dents_)!’ snarles singular old
      Mirabeau; discerning in such admired forensic eloquence nothing
      but two clattering jaw-bones, and a head vacant, sonorous, of the
      drum species.

      But as for Gabriel Honoré, in these strange wayfarings, what has
      he not seen and tried! From drill-sergeants, to prime-ministers,
      to foreign and domestic booksellers, all manner of men he has
      seen. All manner of men he has gained; for at bottom it is a
      social, loving heart, that wild unconquerable one:—more
      especially all manner of women. From the Archer’s Daughter at
      Saintes to that fair young Sophie Madame Monnier, whom he could
      not but “steal,” and be beheaded for—in effigy! For indeed hardly
      since the Arabian Prophet lay dead to Ali’s admiration, was there
      seen such a Love-hero, with the strength of thirty men. In War,
      again, he has helped to conquer Corsica; fought duels, irregular
      brawls; horsewhipped calumnious barons. In Literature, he has
      written on _Despotism_, on _Lettres-de-Cachet;_ Erotics
      Sapphic-Werterean, Obscenities, Profanities; Books on the
      _Prussian Monarchy_, on _Cagliostro_, on _Calonne_, on _the Water
      Companies of Paris:_—each book comparable, we will say, to a
      bituminous alarum-fire; huge, smoky, sudden! The firepan, the
      kindling, the bitumen were his own; but the lumber, of rags, old
      wood and nameless combustible rubbish (for all is fuel to him),
      was gathered from huckster, and ass-panniers, of every
      description under heaven. Whereby, indeed, hucksters enough have
      been heard to exclaim: Out upon it, the fire is _mine!_

      Nay, consider it more generally, seldom had man such a talent for
      borrowing. The idea, the faculty of another man he can make his;
      the man himself he can make his. ‘All reflex and echo (_tout de
      reflet et de réverbère_)!’ snarls old Mirabeau, who can see, but
      will not. Crabbed old Friend of Men! it is his sociality, his
      aggregative nature; and will now be the quality of all for him.
      In that forty-years “struggle against despotism,” he has gained
      the glorious faculty of _self-help_, and yet not lost the
      glorious natural gift of _fellowship_, of being helped. Rare
      union! This man can live self-sufficing—yet lives also in the
      life of other men; can make men love him, work with him: a born
      king of men!

      But consider further how, as the old Marquis still snarls, he has
      ‘made away with (_humé_, swallowed) all _Formulas;_’—a fact
      which, if we meditate it, will in these days mean much. This is
      no man of system, then; he is only a man of instincts and
      insights. A man nevertheless who will glare fiercely on any
      object; and see through it, and conquer it: for he has intellect,
      he has will, force beyond other men. A man not with
      _logic-spectacles;_ but with an _eye!_ Unhappily without
      Decalogue, moral Code or Theorem of any fixed sort; yet not
      without a strong living Soul in him, and Sincerity there: a
      Reality, not an Artificiality, not a Sham! And so he, having
      struggled “forty years against despotism,” and “made away with
      all formulas,” shall now become the spokesman of a Nation bent to
      do the same. For is it not precisely the struggle of France also
      to cast off despotism; to make away with _her_ old
      formulas,—having found them naught, worn out, far from the
      reality? She will make away with _such_ formulas;—and even go
      _bare_, if need be, till she have found new ones.

      Towards such work, in such manner, marches he, this singular
      Riquetti Mirabeau. In fiery rough figure, with black Samson-locks
      under the slouch-hat, he steps along there. A fiery fuliginous
      mass, which could not be choked and smothered, but would fill all
      France with smoke. And now it has got _air;_ it will burn its
      whole substance, its whole smoke-atmosphere too, and fill all
      France with flame. Strange lot! Forty years of that smouldering,
      with foul fire-damp and vapour enough, then victory over
      that;—and like a burning mountain he blazes heaven-high; and, for
      twenty-three resplendent months, pours out, in flame and molten
      fire-torrents, all that is in him, the Pharos and Wonder-sign of
      an amazed Europe;—and then lies hollow, cold forever! Pass on,
      thou questionable Gabriel Honoré, the greatest of them all: in
      the whole National Deputies, in the whole Nation, there is none
      like and none second to thee.

      But now if Mirabeau is the greatest, who of these Six Hundred may
      be the meanest? Shall we say, that anxious, slight,
      ineffectual-looking man, under thirty, in spectacles; his eyes
      (were the glasses off) troubled, careful; with upturned face,
      snuffing dimly the uncertain future-time; complexion of a
      multiplex atrabiliar colour, the final shade of which may be the
      pale sea-green.[132] That greenish-coloured (_verdâtre_)
      individual is an Advocate of Arras; his name is _Maximilien
      Robespierre_. The son of an Advocate; his father founded
      mason-lodges under Charles Edward, the English Prince or
      Pretender. Maximilien the first-born was thriftily educated; he
      had brisk Camille Desmoulins for schoolmate in the College of
      Louis le Grand, at Paris. But he begged our famed
      Necklace-Cardinal, Rohan, the patron, to let him depart thence,
      and resign in favour of a younger brother. The strict-minded Max
      departed; home to paternal Arras; and even had a Law-case there
      and pleaded, not unsuccessfully, “in favour of the first Franklin
      thunder-rod.” With a strict painful mind, an understanding small
      but clear and ready, he grew in favour with official persons, who
      could foresee in him an excellent man of business, happily quite
      free from genius. The Bishop, therefore, taking counsel, appoints
      him Judge of his diocese; and he faithfully does justice to the
      people: till behold, one day, a culprit comes whose crime merits
      hanging; and the strict-minded Max must abdicate, for his
      conscience will not permit the dooming of any son of Adam to die.
      A strict-minded, strait-laced man! A man unfit for Revolutions?
      Whose small soul, transparent wholesome-looking as small ale,
      could by no chance ferment into virulent _alegar_,—the mother of
      ever new alegar; till all France were grown acetous virulent? We
      shall see.

      Between which two extremes of grandest and meanest, so many grand
      and mean roll on, towards their several destinies, in that
      Procession! There is _Cazalès_, the learned young soldier; who
      shall become the eloquent orator of Royalism, and earn the shadow
      of a name. Experienced _Mounier_, experienced _Malouet;_ whose
      Presidential Parlementary experience the stream of things shall
      soon leave stranded. A Pétion has left his gown and briefs at
      Chartres for a stormier sort of pleading; has not forgotten his
      violin, being fond of music. His hair is grizzled, though he is
      still young: convictions, beliefs, placid-unalterable are in that
      man; not hindmost of them, belief in himself. A
      Protestant-clerical _Rabaut-St.-Etienne_, a slender young
      eloquent and vehement _Barnave_, will help to regenerate France.
      There are so many of them young. Till thirty the Spartans did not
      suffer a man to marry: but how many men here under thirty; coming
      to produce not one sufficient citizen, but a nation and a world
      of such! The old to heal up rents; the young to remove
      rubbish:—which latter, is it not, indeed, the task here?

      Dim, formless from this distance, yet authentically there, thou
      noticest the Deputies from Nantes? To us mere clothes-screens,
      with slouch-hat and cloak, but bearing in their pocket a _Cahier_
      of _doléances_ with this singular clause, and more such in it:
      “That the master wigmakers of Nantes be not troubled with new
      gild-brethren, the actually existing number of ninety-two being
      more than sufficient!”[133] The Rennes people have elected Farmer
      _Gérard_, “a man of natural sense and rectitude, without any
      learning.” He walks there, with solid step; unique, “in his
      rustic farmer-clothes;” which he will wear always; careless of
      short-cloaks and costumes. The name Gérard, or “_Père Gérard_,
      Father Gérard,” as they please to call him, will fly far; borne
      about in endless banter; in Royalist satires, in Republican
      didactic Almanacks.[134] As for the man Gerard, being asked once,
      what he did, after trial of it, candidly think of this
      Parlementary work,—‘I think,’ answered he, ‘that there are a good
      many scoundrels among us.’ so walks Father Gérard; solid in his
      thick shoes, whithersoever bound.

      And worthy _Doctor Guillotin_, whom we hoped to behold one other
      time? If not here, the Doctor should be here, and we see him with
      the eye of prophecy: for indeed the Parisian Deputies are all a
      little late. Singular Guillotin, respectable practitioner: doomed
      by a satiric destiny to the strangest immortal glory that ever
      kept obscure mortal from his resting-place, the bosom of
      oblivion! Guillotin can improve the ventilation of the Hall; in
      all cases of medical police and _hygiène_ be a present aid: but,
      greater far, he can produce his “Report on the Penal Code;” and
      reveal therein a cunningly devised Beheading Machine, which shall
      become famous and world-famous. This is the product of
      Guillotin’s endeavours, gained not without meditation and
      reading; which product popular gratitude or levity christens by a
      feminine derivative name, as if it were his daughter: _La
      Guillotine!_ ‘With my machine, Messieurs, I whisk off your head
      (_vous fais sauter la tête_) in a twinkling, and you have no
      pain;’—whereat they all laugh.[135] Unfortunate Doctor! For
      two-and-twenty years he, unguillotined, shall hear nothing but
      guillotine, see nothing but guillotine; then dying, shall through
      long centuries wander, as it were, a disconsolate ghost, on the
      wrong side of Styx and Lethe; his name like to outlive Cæsar’s.

      See _Bailly_, likewise of Paris, time-honoured Historian of
      Astronomy Ancient and Modern. Poor Bailly, how thy serenely
      beautiful Philosophising, with its soft moonshiny clearness and
      thinness, ends in foul thick confusion—of Presidency, Mayorship,
      diplomatic Officiality, rabid Triviality, and the throat of
      everlasting Darkness! Far was it to descend from the heavenly
      Galaxy to the _Drapeau Rouge:_ beside that fatal dung-heap, on
      that last hell-day, thou must “tremble,” though only with cold,
      “_de froid_.” Speculation is not practice: to be weak is not so
      miserable; but to be weaker than our task. Wo the day when they
      mounted thee, a peaceable pedestrian, on that wild Hippogriff of
      a Democracy; which, spurning the firm earth, nay lashing at the
      very _stars_, no yet known Astolpho could have ridden!

      In the Commons Deputies there are Merchants, Artists, Men of
      Letters; three hundred and seventy-four Lawyers;[136] and at
      least one Clergyman: the _Abbé Sieyes_. Him also Paris sends,
      among its twenty. Behold him, the light thin man; cold, but
      elastic, wiry; instinct with the pride of Logic; passionless, or
      with but one passion, that of self-conceit. If indeed that can be
      called a passion, which, in its independent concentrated
      greatness, seems to have soared into transcendentalism; and to
      sit there with a kind of godlike indifference, and look down on
      passion! He is the man, and wisdom shall die with him. This is
      the Sieyes who shall be System-builder, Constitution-builder
      General; and build Constitutions (as many as wanted)
      skyhigh,—which shall all unfortunately fall before he get the
      scaffolding away. ‘_La Politique_,’ said he to Dumont, ‘Polity is
      a science I think I have completed (_achevée_).’[137] What
      things, O Sieyes, with thy clear assiduous eyes, art thou to see!
      But were it not curious to know how Sieyes, now in these days
      (for he is said to be still alive)[138] looks out on all that
      Constitution masonry, through the rheumy soberness of extreme
      age? Might we hope, still with the old irrefragable
      transcendentalism? The victorious cause pleased the gods, the
      vanquished one pleased Sieyes (_victa Catoni_).

      Thus, however, amid skyrending vivats, and blessings from every
      heart, has the Procession of the Commons Deputies rolled by.

      Next follow the Noblesse, and next the Clergy; concerning both of
      whom it might be asked, What they specially have come for?
      Specially, little as they dream of it, to answer this question,
      put in a voice of thunder: What are you doing in God’s fair Earth
      and Task-garden; where whosoever is not working is begging or
      stealing? Wo, wo to themselves and to all, if they can only
      answer: Collecting tithes, Preserving game!—Remark, meanwhile,
      how _D’Orléans_ affects to step before his own Order, and mingle
      with the Commons. For him are _vivats:_ few for the rest, though
      all wave in plumed “hats of a feudal cut,” and have sword on
      thigh; though among them is _D’Antraigues_, the young
      Languedocian gentleman,—and indeed many a Peer more or less
      noteworthy.

      There are _Liancourt_, and _La Rochefoucault;_ the liberal
      Anglomaniac Dukes. There is a filially pious _Lally;_ a couple of
      liberal _Lameths_. Above all, there is a _Lafayette;_ whose name
      shall be Cromwell-Grandison, and fill the world. Many a “formula”
      has this Lafayette too made away with; yet not _all_ formulas. He
      sticks by the Washington-formula; and by that he will stick;—and
      hang by it, as by sure bower-anchor hangs and swings the tight
      war-ship, which, after all changes of wildest weather and water,
      is found still hanging. Happy for him; be it glorious or not!
      Alone of all Frenchmen he has a theory of the world, and right
      mind to conform thereto; he can become a hero and perfect
      character, were it but the hero of one idea. Note further our old
      Parlementary friend, _Crispin-Catiline d’Espréménil_. He is
      returned from the Mediterranean Islands, a redhot royalist,
      repentant to the finger-ends;—unsettled-looking; whose light,
      dusky-glowing at best, now flickers foul in the socket; whom the
      National Assembly will by and by, to save time, “regard as in a
      state of distraction.” Note lastly that globular _Younger_
      Mirabeau; indignant that his elder Brother is among the Commons:
      it is _Viscomte_ Mirabeau; named oftener Mirabeau _Tonneau_
      (Barrel Mirabeau), on account of his rotundity, and the
      quantities of strong liquor he contains.

      There then walks our French Noblesse. All in the old pomp of
      chivalry: and yet, alas, how changed from the old position;
      drifted far down from their native latitude, like Arctic icebergs
      got into the Equatorial sea, and fast thawing there! Once these
      Chivalry _Duces_ (Dukes, as they are still named) did actually
      _lead_ the world,—were it only towards battle-spoil, where lay
      the world’s best wages then: moreover, being the ablest Leaders
      going, they had their lion’s share, those _Duces;_ which none
      could grudge them. But now, when so many Looms, improved
      Ploughshares, Steam-Engines and Bills of Exchange have been
      invented; and, for battle-brawling itself, men hire
      Drill-Sergeants at eighteen-pence a-day,—what mean these
      goldmantled Chivalry Figures, walking there “in black-velvet
      cloaks,” in high-plumed “hats of a feudal cut”? Reeds shaken in
      the wind!

      The Clergy have got up; with _Cahiers_ for abolishing
      pluralities, enforcing residence of bishops, better payment of
      tithes.[139] The Dignitaries, we can observe, walk stately, apart
      from the numerous Undignified,—who indeed are properly little
      other than Commons disguised in Curate-frocks. Here, however,
      though by strange ways, shall the Precept be fulfilled, and they
      that are greatest (much to their astonishment) become least. For
      one example, out of many, mark that plausible _Grégoire:_ one day
      Curé Grégoire shall be a Bishop, when the now stately are
      wandering distracted, as Bishops _in partibus_. With other
      thought, mark also the _Abbé Maury:_ his broad bold face; mouth
      accurately primmed; full eyes, that ray out intelligence,
      falsehood,—the sort of sophistry which is astonished you should
      find it sophistical. Skilfulest vamper-up of old rotten leather,
      to make it look like new; always a rising man; he used to tell
      Mercier, ‘You will see; I shall be in the Academy before
      you.’[140] Likely indeed, thou skilfullest Maury; nay thou shalt
      have a Cardinal’s Hat, and plush and glory; but alas, also, in
      the longrun—mere oblivion, like the rest of us; and six feet of
      earth! What boots it, vamping rotten leather on these terms?
      Glorious in comparison is the livelihood thy good old Father
      earns, by making shoes,—one may hope, in a sufficient manner.
      Maury does not want for audacity. He shall wear pistols, by and
      by; and at death-cries of ‘_La Lanterne_, The Lamp-iron;’ answer
      coolly, ‘Friends, will you see better there?’

      But yonder, halting lamely along, thou noticest next _Bishop
      Talleyrand-Perigord_, his Reverence of Autun. A sardonic grimness
      lies in that irreverent Reverence of Autun. He will do and suffer
      strange things; and will _become_ surely one of the strangest
      things ever seen, or like to be seen. A man living in falsehood,
      and on falsehood; yet not what you can call a false man: there is
      the specialty! It will be an enigma for future ages, one may
      hope: hitherto such a product of Nature and Art was possible only
      for this age of ours,—Age of Paper, and of the Burning of Paper.
      Consider Bishop Talleyrand and Marquis Lafayette as the topmost
      of their two kinds; and say once more, looking at what they did
      and what they were, _O Tempus ferax rerum!_

      On the whole, however, has not this unfortunate Clergy also
      drifted in the Time-stream, far from its native latitude? An
      anomalous mass of men; of whom the whole world has already a dim
      understanding that it can understand nothing. They were once a
      Priesthood, interpreters of Wisdom, revealers of the Holy that is
      in Man: a true _Clerus_ (or Inheritance of God on Earth): but
      now?—They pass silently, with such _Cahiers_ as they have been
      able to redact; and none cries, God bless them.

      King Louis with his Court brings up the rear: he cheerful, in
      this day of hope, is saluted with plaudits; still more Necker his
      Minister. Not so the Queen; on whom hope shines not steadily any
      more. Ill-fated Queen! Her hair is already gray with many cares
      and crosses; her first-born son is dying in these weeks: black
      falsehood has ineffaceably soiled her name; ineffaceably while
      this generation lasts. Instead of _Vive la Reine_, voices insult
      her with _Vive d’Orléans_. Of her queenly beauty little remains
      except its stateliness; not now gracious, but haughty, rigid,
      silently enduring. With a most mixed feeling, wherein joy has no
      part, she resigns herself to a day she hoped never to have seen.
      Poor Marie Antoinette; with thy quick noble instincts; vehement
      glancings, vision all-too fitful narrow for the work thou hast to
      do! O there are tears in store for thee; bitterest wailings, soft
      womanly meltings, though thou hast the heart of an imperial
      Theresa’s Daughter. Thou doomed one, shut thy eyes on the
      future!—

      And so, in stately Procession, have passed the Elected of France.
      Some towards honour and quick fire-consummation; most towards
      dishonour; not a few towards massacre, confusion, emigration,
      desperation: all towards Eternity!—So many heterogeneities cast
      together into the fermenting-vat; there, with incalculable
      action, counteraction, elective affinities, explosive
      developments, to work out healing for a sick moribund System of
      Society! Probably the strangest Body of Men, if we consider well,
      that ever met together on our Planet on such an errand. So
      thousandfold complex a Society, ready to burst-up from its
      infinite depths; and these men, its rulers and healers, without
      life-rule for themselves,—other life-rule than a Gospel according
      to Jean Jacques! To the wisest of them, what we must call the
      wisest, man is properly an Accident under the sky. Man is without
      Duty round him; except it be “to make the Constitution.” He is
      without Heaven above him, or Hell beneath him; he has no God in
      the world.

      What further or better belief can be said to exist in these
      Twelve Hundred? Belief in high-plumed hats of a feudal cut; in
      heraldic scutcheons; in the divine right of Kings, in the divine
      right of Game-destroyers. Belief, or what is still worse, canting
      half-belief; or worst of all, mere Macchiavellic
      pretence-of-belief,—in consecrated dough-wafers, and the godhood
      of a poor old Italian Man! Nevertheless in that immeasurable
      Confusion and Corruption, which struggles there so blindly to
      become less confused and corrupt, there is, as we said, this one
      salient point of a New Life discernible: the deep fixed
      Determination to have done with Shams. A determination, which,
      consciously or unconsciously, is _fixed;_ which waxes ever more
      fixed, into very madness and fixed-idea; which in such embodiment
      as lies provided there, shall now unfold itself rapidly:
      monstrous, stupendous, unspeakable; new for long thousands of
      years!—How has the Heaven’s _light_, oftentimes in this Earth, to
      clothe itself in thunder and electric murkiness; and descend as
      molten _lightning_, blasting, if purifying! Nay is it not rather
      the very murkiness, and atmospheric suffocation, that _brings_
      the lightning and the light? The new Evangel, as the old had
      been, was it to be born in the Destruction of a World?

      But how the Deputies assisted at High Mass, and heard sermon, and
      applauded the preacher, church as it was, when he preached
      politics; how, next day, with sustained pomp, they are, for the
      first time, installed in their _Salles des Menus_ (Hall no longer
      of _Amusements_), and become a States-General,—readers can fancy
      for themselves. The King from his _estrade_, gorgeous as Solomon
      in all his glory, runs his eye over that majestic Hall;
      many-plumed, many-glancing; bright-tinted as rainbow, in the
      galleries and near side spaces, where Beauty sits raining bright
      influence. Satisfaction, as of one that after long voyaging had
      got to port, plays over his broad simple face: the innocent King!
      He rises and speaks, with sonorous tone, a conceivable speech.
      With which, still more with the succeeding one-hour and two-hour
      speeches of Garde-des-Sceaux and M. Necker, full of nothing but
      patriotism, hope, faith, and deficiency of the revenue,—no reader
      of these pages shall be tried.

      We remark only that, as his Majesty, on finishing the speech, put
      on his plumed hat, and the Noblesse according to custom imitated
      him, our Tiers-Etat Deputies did mostly, not without a shade of
      fierceness, in like manner clap-on, and even crush on their
      slouched hats; and stand there awaiting the issue.[141] Thick
      buzz among them, between majority and minority of _Couvrezvous,
      Décrouvrez-vous_ (Hats off, Hats on)! To which his Majesty puts
      end, by taking _off_ his own royal hat again.

      The session terminates without further accident or omen than
      this; with which, significantly enough, France has opened her
      States-General.


      BOOK 1.V.
      THE THIRD ESTATE


      Chapter 1.5.I.
      Inertia.

      That exasperated France, in this same National Assembly of hers,
      has got something, nay something great, momentous, indispensable,
      cannot be doubted; yet still the question were: Specially _what?_
      A question hard to solve, even for calm onlookers at this
      distance; wholly insoluble to actors in the middle of it. The
      States-General, created and conflated by the passionate effort of
      the whole nation, is there as a thing high and lifted up. Hope,
      jubilating, cries aloud that it will prove a miraculous Brazen
      Serpent in the Wilderness; whereon whosoever looks, with faith
      and obedience, shall be healed of all woes and serpent-bites.

      We may answer, it will at least prove a symbolic Banner; round
      which the exasperating complaining Twenty-Five Millions,
      otherwise isolated and without power, may rally, and work—what it
      is in them to work. If battle must be the work, as one cannot
      help expecting, then shall it be a battle-banner (say, an Italian
      Gonfalon, in its old Republican _Carroccio_); and shall tower up,
      car-borne, shining in the wind: and with iron tongue peal forth
      many a signal. A thing of prime necessity; which whether in the
      van or in the centre, whether leading or led and driven, must do
      the fighting multitude incalculable services. For a season, while
      it floats in the very front, nay as it were stands solitary
      there, waiting whether force will gather round it, this same
      National _Carroccio_, and the signal-peals it rings, are a main
      object with us.

      The omen of the “slouch-hats clapt on” shows the Commons Deputies
      to have made up their minds on one thing: that neither Noblesse
      nor Clergy shall have precedence of them; hardly even Majesty
      itself. To such length has the _Contrat Social_, and force of
      public opinion, carried us. For what is Majesty but the Delegate
      of the Nation; delegated, and bargained with (even rather
      tightly),—in some very singular posture of affairs, which Jean
      Jacques has not fixed the date of?

      Coming therefore into their Hall, on the morrow, an inorganic
      mass of Six Hundred individuals, these Commons Deputies perceive,
      without terror, that they have it all to themselves. Their Hall
      is also the Grand or general Hall for all the Three Orders. But
      the Noblesse and Clergy, it would seem, have retired to their two
      separate Apartments, or Halls; and are there “verifying their
      powers,” not in a conjoint but in a separate capacity. They are
      to constitute two separate, perhaps separately-voting Orders,
      then? It is as if both Noblesse and Clergy had silently taken for
      granted that they already were such! Two Orders against one; and
      so the Third Order to be left in a perpetual minority?

      Much may remain unfixed; but the negative of that is a thing
      fixed: in the Slouch-hatted heads, in the French Nation’s head.
      Double representation, and all else hitherto gained, were
      otherwise futile, null. Doubtless, the “powers must be
      verified;”—doubtless, the Commission, the electoral Documents of
      your Deputy must be inspected by his brother Deputies, and found
      valid: it is the preliminary of all. Neither is this question, of
      doing it separately or doing it conjointly, a vital one: but if
      it lead to such? It must be resisted; wise was that maxim, Resist
      the beginnings! Nay were resistance unadvisable, even dangerous,
      yet surely pause is very natural: pause, with Twenty-five
      Millions behind you, may become resistance enough.—The inorganic
      mass of Commons Deputies will restrict itself to a “system of
      inertia,” and for the present remain inorganic.

      Such method, recommendable alike to sagacity and to timidity, do
      the Commons Deputies adopt; and, not without adroitness, and with
      ever more tenacity, they persist in it, day after day, week after
      week. For six weeks their history is of the kind named barren;
      which indeed, as Philosophy knows, is often the fruitfulest of
      all. These were their still creation-days; wherein they sat
      incubating! In fact, what they did was to do nothing, in a
      judicious manner. Daily the inorganic body reassembles; regrets
      that they cannot get organisation, “verification of powers in
      common, and begin regenerating France. Headlong motions may be
      made, but let such be repressed; inertia alone is at once
      unpunishable and unconquerable.

      Cunning must be met by cunning; proud pretension by inertia, by a
      low tone of patriotic sorrow; low, but incurable, unalterable.
      Wise as serpents; harmless as doves: what a spectacle for France!
      Six Hundred inorganic individuals, essential for its regeneration
      and salvation, sit there, on their elliptic benches, longing
      passionately towards life; in painful durance; like souls waiting
      to be born. Speeches are spoken; eloquent; audible within doors
      and without. Mind agitates itself against mind; the Nation looks
      on with ever deeper interest. Thus do the Commons Deputies sit
      incubating.

      There are private conclaves, supper-parties, consultations;
      Breton Club, Club of Viroflay; germs of many Clubs. Wholly an
      element of confused noise, dimness, angry heat;—wherein, however,
      the Eros-egg, kept at the fit temperature, may hover safe,
      unbroken till it be hatched. In your Mouniers, Malouets,
      Lechapeliers in science sufficient for that; fervour in your
      Barnaves, Rabauts. At times shall come an inspiration from royal
      Mirabeau: he is nowise yet recognised as royal; nay he was
      “groaned at,” when his name was first mentioned: but he is
      struggling towards recognition.

      In the course of the week, the Commons having called their Eldest
      to the chair, and furnished him with young stronger-lunged
      assistants,—can speak articulately; and, in audible lamentable
      words, declare, as we said, that they are an inorganic body,
      longing to become organic. Letters arrive; but an inorganic body
      cannot open letters; they lie on the table unopened. The Eldest
      may at most procure for himself some kind of List or Muster-roll,
      to take the votes by, and wait what will betide. Noblesse and
      Clergy are all elsewhere: however, an eager public crowds all
      galleries and vacancies; which is some comfort. With effort, it
      is determined, not that a Deputation shall be sent,—for how can
      an inorganic body send deputations?—but that certain individual
      Commons Members shall, in an accidental way, stroll into the
      Clergy Chamber, and then into the Noblesse one; and mention
      there, as a thing they have happened to observe, that the Commons
      seem to be sitting waiting for them, in order to verify their
      powers. That is the wiser method!

      The Clergy, among whom are such a multitude of Undignified, of
      mere Commons in Curates’ frocks, depute instant respectful answer
      that they are, and will now more than ever be, in deepest study
      as to that very matter. Contrariwise the Noblesse, in cavalier
      attitude, reply, after four days, that they, for their part, are
      all verified and constituted; which, they had trusted, the
      Commons also were; such _separate_ verification being clearly the
      proper constitutional wisdom-of-ancestors method;—as they the
      Noblesse will have much pleasure in demonstrating by a Commission
      of their number, if the Commons will meet them, Commission
      against Commission! Directly in the rear of which comes a
      deputation of Clergy, reiterating, in their insidious
      conciliatory way, the same proposal. Here, then, is a complexity:
      what will wise Commons say to this?

      Warily, inertly, the wise Commons, considering that they are, if
      not a French Third Estate, at least an Aggregate of individuals
      pretending to some title of that kind, determine, after talking
      on it five days, to name such a Commission,—though, as it were,
      with proviso not to be convinced: a sixth day is taken up in
      naming it; a seventh and an eighth day in getting the forms of
      meeting, place, hour and the like, settled: so that it is not
      till the evening of the 23rd of May that Noblesse Commission
      first meets Commons Commission, Clergy acting as Conciliators;
      and begins the impossible task of convincing it. One other
      meeting, on the 25th, will suffice: the Commons are
      inconvincible, the Noblesse and Clergy irrefragably convincing;
      the Commissions retire; each Order persisting in its first
      pretensions.[142]

      Thus have three weeks passed. For three weeks, the Third-Estate
      Carroccio, with far-seen Gonfalon, has stood stockstill, flouting
      the wind; waiting what force would gather round it.

      Fancy can conceive the feeling of the Court; and how counsel met
      counsel, the loud-sounding inanity whirled in that distracted
      vortex, where wisdom could not dwell. Your cunningly devised
      Taxing-Machine has been got together; set up with incredible
      labour; and stands there, its three pieces in contact; its two
      fly-wheels of Noblesse and Clergy, its huge working-wheel of
      Tiers-Etat. The two fly-wheels whirl in the softest manner; but,
      prodigious to look upon, the huge working-wheel hangs motionless,
      refuses to stir! The cunningest engineers are at fault. How
      _will_ it work, when it does begin? Fearfully, my Friends; and to
      many purposes; but to gather taxes, or grind court-meal, one may
      apprehend, never. Could we but have continued gathering taxes _by
      hand!_ Messeigneurs d’Artois, Conti, Condé (named Court
      Triumvirate), they of the anti-democratic _Mémoire au Roi_, has
      not their foreboding proved true? They may wave reproachfully
      their high heads; they may beat their poor brains; but the
      cunningest engineers can do nothing. Necker himself, were he even
      listened to, begins to look blue. The only thing one sees
      advisable is to bring up soldiers. New regiments, two, and a
      battalion of a third, have already reached Paris; others shall
      get in march. Good were it, in all circumstances, to have troops
      within reach; good that the command were in sure hands. Let
      Broglie be appointed; old Marshal Duke de Broglie; veteran
      disciplinarian, of a firm drill-sergeant morality, such as may be
      depended on.

      For, alas, neither are the Clergy, or the very Noblesse what they
      should be; and might be, when so menaced from without: entire,
      undivided within. The Noblesse, indeed, have their Catiline or
      Crispin D’Espréménil, dusky-glowing, all in renegade heat; their
      boisterous Barrel-Mirabeau; but also they have their Lafayettes,
      Liancourts, Lameths; above all, their D’Orléans, now cut forever
      from his Court-moorings, and musing drowsily of high and highest
      sea-prizes (for is not he too a son of Henri Quatre, and partial
      potential Heir-Apparent?)—on his voyage towards Chaos. From the
      Clergy again, so numerous are the Curés, actual deserters have
      run over: two small parties; in the second party Curé Gregoire.
      Nay there is talk of a whole Hundred and Forty-nine of them about
      to desert in mass, and only restrained by an Archbishop of Paris.
      It seems a losing game.

      But judge if France, if Paris sat idle, all this while! Addresses
      from far and near flow in: for our Commons have now grown organic
      enough to open letters. Or indeed to cavil at them! Thus poor
      Marquis de Brézé, Supreme Usher, Master of Ceremonies, or
      whatever his title was, writing about this time on some
      ceremonial matter, sees no harm in winding up with a “Monsieur,
      yours with sincere attachment.”—‘To whom does it address itself,
      this sincere attachment?’ inquires Mirabeau. ‘To the Dean of the
      Tiers-Etat.’—‘There is no man in France entitled to write that,’
      rejoins he; whereat the Galleries and the World will not be kept
      from applauding.[143] Poor De Brézé! These Commons have a still
      older grudge at him; nor has he yet done with them.

      In another way, Mirabeau has had to protest against the quick
      suppression of his Newspaper, _Journal of the
      States-General;_—and to continue it under a new name. In which
      act of valour, the Paris Electors, still busy redacting their
      _Cahier_, could not but support him, by Address to his Majesty:
      they claim utmost “provisory freedom of the press;” they have
      spoken even about demolishing the Bastille, and erecting a Bronze
      Patriot King on the site!—These are the rich Burghers: but now
      consider how it went, for example, with such loose miscellany,
      now all grown eleutheromaniac, of Loungers, Prowlers, social
      Nondescripts (and the distilled Rascality of our Planet), as
      whirls forever in the Palais Royal;—or what low infinite groan,
      first changing into a growl, comes from Saint-Antoine, and the
      Twenty-five Millions in danger of starvation!

      There is the indisputablest scarcity of corn;—be it
      Aristocrat-plot, D’Orléans-plot, of this year; or drought and
      hail of last year: in city and province, the poor man looks
      desolately towards a nameless lot. And this States-General, that
      could make us an age of gold, is forced to stand motionless;
      cannot get its powers verified! All industry necessarily
      languishes, if it be not that of making motions.

      In the Palais Royal there has been erected, apparently by
      subscription, a kind of Wooden Tent (_en planches de
      bois_);[144]—most convenient; where select Patriotism can now
      redact resolutions, deliver harangues, with comfort, let the
      weather but as it will. Lively is that Satan-at-Home! On his
      table, on his chair, in every _café_, stands a patriotic orator;
      a crowd round him within; a crowd listening from without,
      open-mouthed, through open door and window; with “thunders of
      applause for every sentiment of more than common hardiness.” In
      Monsieur Dessein’s Pamphlet-shop, close by, you cannot without
      strong elbowing get to the counter: every hour produces its
      pamphlet, or litter of pamphlets; “there were thirteen today,
      sixteen yesterday, nine-two last week.”[145] Think of Tyranny and
      Scarcity; Fervid-eloquence, Rumour, Pamphleteering; _Societé
      Publicole_, Breton Club, Enraged Club;—and whether every
      tap-room, coffee-room, social reunion, accidental street-group,
      over wide France, was not an Enraged Club!

      To all which the Commons Deputies can only listen with a sublime
      inertia of sorrow; reduced to busy themselves “with their
      internal police.” Surer position no Deputies ever occupied; if
      they keep it with skill. Let not the temperature rise too high;
      break not the Eros-egg till it be hatched, till it break itself!
      An eager public crowds all Galleries and vacancies! “cannot be
      restrained from applauding.” The two Privileged Orders, the
      Noblesse all verified and constituted, may look on with what face
      they will; not without a secret tremor of heart. The Clergy,
      always acting the part of conciliators, make a clutch at the
      Galleries, and the popularity there; and miss it. Deputation of
      them arrives, with dolorous message about the “dearth of grains,”
      and the necessity there is of casting aside vain formalities, and
      deliberating on this. An insidious proposal; which, however, the
      Commons (moved thereto by seagreen Robespierre) dexterously
      accept as a sort of hint, or even pledge, that the Clergy will
      forthwith come over to them, constitute the States-General, and
      so cheapen grains![146]—Finally, on the 27th day of May,
      Mirabeau, judging the time now nearly come, proposes that “the
      inertia cease;” that, leaving the Noblesse to their own stiff
      ways, the Clergy be summoned, “in the name of the God of Peace,”
      to join the Commons, and begin.[147] To which summons if they
      turn a deaf ear,—we shall see! Are not one Hundred and Forty-nine
      of them ready to desert?

      O Triumvirate of Princes, new Garde-des-Sceaux Barentin, thou
      Home-Secretary Bréteuil, Duchess Polignac, and Queen eager to
      listen,—what is now to be done? This Third Estate will get in
      motion, with the force of all France in it; Clergy-machinery with
      Noblesse-machinery, which were to serve as beautiful
      counter-balances and drags, will be shamefully dragged after
      it,—and take fire along with it. What is to be done? The
      Œil-de-Bœuf waxes more confused than ever. Whisper and
      counter-whisper; a very tempest of whispers! Leading men from all
      the Three Orders are nightly spirited thither; conjurors many of
      them; but can they conjure this? Necker himself were now welcome,
      could he interfere to purpose.

      Let Necker interfere, then; and in the King’s name! Happily that
      incendiary “God-of-Peace” message is not yet _answered_. The
      Three Orders shall again have conferences; under this Patriot
      Minister of theirs, somewhat may be healed, clouted up;—we
      meanwhile getting forward Swiss Regiments, and a “hundred pieces
      of field-artillery.” This is what the Œil-de-Bœuf, for its part,
      resolves on.

      But as for Necker—Alas, poor Necker, thy obstinate Third Estate
      has one first-last word, _verification in common_, as the pledge
      of voting and deliberating in common! Half-way proposals, from
      such a tried friend, they answer with a stare. The tardy
      conferences speedily break up; the Third Estate, now ready and
      resolute, the whole world backing it, returns to its Hall of the
      Three Orders; and Necker to the Œil-de-Bœuf, with the character
      of a disconjured conjuror there—fit only for dismissal.[148]

      And so the Commons Deputies are at last on their own strength
      getting under way? Instead of Chairman, or Dean, they have now
      got a President: Astronomer Bailly. Under way, with a vengeance!
      With endless vociferous and temperate eloquence, borne on
      Newspaper wings to all lands, they have now, on this 17th day of
      June, determined that their name is not _Third Estate_,
      but—_National Assembly!_ They, then, are the Nation? Triumvirate
      of Princes, Queen, refractory Noblesse and Clergy, what, then,
      are _you?_ A most deep question;—scarcely answerable in living
      political dialects.

      All regardless of which, our new National Assembly proceeds to
      appoint a “committee of subsistences;” dear to France, though it
      can find little or no grain. Next, as if our National Assembly
      stood quite firm on its legs,—to appoint “four other standing
      committees;” then to settle the security of the National Debt;
      then that of the Annual Taxation: all within eight-and-forty
      hours. At such rate of velocity it is going: the conjurors of the
      Œil-de-Bœuf may well ask themselves, Whither?


      Chapter 1.5.II.
      Mercury de Brézé.

      Now surely were the time for a “god from the machine;” there is a
      _nodus_ worthy of one. The only question is, Which god? Shall it
      be Mars de Broglie, with his hundred pieces of cannon?—Not yet,
      answers prudence; so soft, irresolute is King Louis. Let it be
      Messenger _Mercury_, our Supreme Usher de Brézé.

      On the morrow, which is the 20th of June, these Hundred and
      Forty-nine false Curates, no longer restrainable by his Grace of
      Paris, will desert in a body: let De Brézé intervene, and
      produce—closed doors! Not only shall there be Royal Session, in
      that Salle des Menus; but no meeting, nor working (except by
      carpenters), till then. Your Third Estate, self-styled “National
      Assembly,” shall suddenly see itself extruded from its Hall, by
      carpenters, in this dexterous way; and reduced to do nothing, not
      even to meet, or articulately lament,—till Majesty, with _Séance
      Royale_ and new miracles, be ready! In this manner shall De
      Brézé, as Mercury _ex machinâ_, intervene; and, if the
      Œil-de-Bœuf mistake not, work deliverance from the _nodus_.

      Of poor De Brézé we can remark that he has yet prospered in none
      of his dealings with these Commons. Five weeks ago, when they
      kissed the hand of Majesty, the mode he took got nothing but
      censure; and then his “sincere attachment,” how was it scornfully
      whiffed aside! Before supper, this night, he writes to President
      Bailly, a new Letter, to be delivered shortly after dawn
      tomorrow, in the King’s name. Which Letter, however, Bailly in
      the pride of office, will merely crush together into his pocket,
      like a bill he does not mean to pay.

      Accordingly on Saturday morning the 20th of June, shrill-sounding
      heralds proclaim through the streets of Versailles, that there is
      to be a _Séance Royale_ next Monday; and no meeting of the
      States-General till then. And yet, we observe, President Bailly
      in sound of this, and with De Brézé’s Letter in his pocket, is
      proceeding, with National Assembly at his heels, to the
      accustomed Salles des Menus; as if De Brézé and heralds were mere
      wind. It is shut, this Salle; occupied by Gardes Françaises.
      ‘Where is your Captain?’ The Captain shows his royal order:
      workmen, he is grieved to say, are all busy setting up the
      platform for his Majesty’s _Séance;_ most unfortunately, no
      admission; admission, at furthest, for President and Secretaries
      to bring away papers, which the joiners might destroy!—President
      Bailly enters with Secretaries; and returns bearing papers: alas,
      within doors, instead of patriotic eloquence, there is now no
      noise but hammering, sawing, and operative screeching and
      rumbling! A profanation without parallel.

      The Deputies stand grouped on the Paris Road, on this umbrageous
      _Avenue de Versailles;_ complaining aloud of the indignity done
      them. Courtiers, it is supposed, look from their windows, and
      giggle. The morning is none of the comfortablest: raw; it is even
      drizzling a little.[149] But all travellers pause; patriot
      gallery-men, miscellaneous spectators increase the groups. Wild
      counsels alternate. Some desperate Deputies propose to go and
      hold session on the great outer Staircase at Marly, under the
      King’s windows; for his Majesty, it seems, has driven over
      thither. Others talk of making the Château Forecourt, what they
      call _Place d’Armes_, a Runnymede and new _Champ de Mai_ of free
      Frenchmen: nay of awakening, to sounds of indignant Patriotism,
      the echoes of the Œil-de-boeuf itself.—Notice is given that
      President Bailly, aided by judicious Guillotin and others, has
      found place in the Tennis-Court of the Rue St. François. Thither,
      in long-drawn files, hoarse-jingling, like cranes on wing, the
      Commons Deputies angrily wend.

      Strange sight was this in the Rue St. François, Vieux Versailles!
      A naked Tennis-Court, as the pictures of that time still give it:
      four walls; naked, except aloft some poor wooden penthouse, or
      roofed spectators’-gallery, hanging round them:—on the floor not
      now an idle teeheeing, a snapping of balls and rackets; but the
      bellowing din of an indignant National Representation,
      scandalously exiled hither! However, a cloud of witnesses looks
      down on them, from wooden penthouse, from wall-top, from
      adjoining roof and chimney; rolls towards them from all quarters,
      with passionate spoken blessings. Some table can be procured to
      write on; some chair, if not to sit on, then to stand on. The
      Secretaries undo their tapes; Bailly has constituted the
      Assembly.

      Experienced Mounier, not wholly new to such things, in
      Parlementary revolts, which he has seen or heard of, thinks that
      it were well, in these lamentable threatening circumstances, to
      unite themselves by an Oath.—Universal acclamation, as from
      smouldering bosoms getting vent! The Oath is redacted; pronounced
      aloud by President Bailly,—and indeed in such a sonorous tone,
      that the cloud of witnesses, even outdoors, hear it, and bellow
      response to it. Six hundred right-hands rise with President
      Bailly’s, to take God above to witness that they will not
      separate for man below, but will meet in all places, under all
      circumstances, wheresoever two or three can get together, till
      they have made the Constitution. Made the Constitution, Friends!
      That is a long task. Six hundred hands, meanwhile, will sign as
      they have sworn: six hundred save one; one Loyalist Abdiel, still
      visible by this sole light-point, and nameable, poor “M. Martin
      d’Auch, from Castelnaudary, in Languedoc.” Him they permit to
      sign or signify refusal; they even save him from the cloud of
      witnesses, by declaring “his head deranged.” At four o’clock, the
      signatures are all appended; new meeting is fixed for Monday
      morning, earlier than the hour of the Royal Session; that our
      Hundred and Forty-nine Clerical deserters be not balked: we shall
      meet “at the Recollets Church or elsewhere,” in hope that our
      Hundred and Forty-nine will join us;—and now it is time to go to
      dinner.

      This, then, is the Session of the Tennis-Court, famed _Séance du
      Jeu de Paume;_ the fame of which has gone forth to all lands.
      This is Mercurius de Brézé’s appearance as _Deus ex machinâ;_
      this is the fruit it brings! The giggle of Courtiers in the
      Versailles Avenue has already died into gaunt silence. Did the
      distracted Court, with Gardes-des-Sceaux Barentin, Triumvirate
      and Company, imagine that they could scatter six hundred National
      Deputies, big with a National Constitution, like as much barndoor
      poultry, big with next to nothing,—by the white or black rod of a
      Supreme Usher? Barndoor poultry fly cackling: but National
      Deputies turn round, lion-faced; and, with uplifted right-hand,
      swear an Oath that makes the four corners of France tremble.

      President Bailly has covered himself with honour; which shall
      become rewards. The National Assembly is now doubly and trebly
      the Nation’s Assembly; not militant, martyred only, but
      triumphant; insulted, and which could not _be_ insulted. Paris
      disembogues itself once more, to witness, “with grim looks,” the
      _Séance Royale:_[150] which, by a new felicity, is postponed till
      Tuesday. The Hundred and Forty-nine, and even with Bishops among
      them, all in processional mass, have had free leisure to march
      off, and solemnly join the Commons sitting waiting in their
      Church. The Commons welcomed them with shouts, with embracings,
      nay with tears;[151] for it is growing a life-and-death matter
      now.

      As for the _Séance_ itself, the Carpenters seem to have
      accomplished their platform; but all else remains unaccomplished.
      Futile, we may say fatal, was the whole matter. King Louis
      enters, through seas of people, all grim-silent, angry with many
      things,—for it is a bitter rain too. Enters, to a Third Estate,
      likewise grim-silent; which has been wetted waiting under mean
      porches, at back-doors, while Court and Privileged were entering
      by the front. King and Garde-des-Sceaux (there is no Necker
      visible) make known, not without longwindedness, the
      determinations of the royal breast. The Three Orders _shall_ vote
      separately. On the other hand, France may look for considerable
      constitutional blessings; as specified in these Five-and-thirty
      Articles,[152] which Garde-des-Sceaux is waxing hoarse with
      reading. Which Five-and-Thirty Articles, adds his Majesty again
      rising, if the Three Orders most unfortunately cannot agree
      together to effect them, I myself will effect: ‘_seul je ferai le
      bien de mes peuples_,’—which being interpreted may signify, You,
      contentious Deputies of the States-General, have probably not
      long to be here! But, in fine, all shall now withdraw for this
      day; and meet again, each Order in its separate place, tomorrow
      morning, for despatch of business. _This_ is the determination of
      the royal breast: pithy and clear. And herewith King, retinue,
      Noblesse, majority of Clergy file out, as if the whole matter
      were satisfactorily completed.

      These file out; through grim-silent seas of people. Only the
      Commons Deputies file not out; but stand there in gloomy silence,
      uncertain what they shall do. One man of them is certain; one man
      of them discerns and dares! It is now that King Mirabeau starts
      to the Tribune, and lifts up his lion-voice. Verily a word in
      season; for, in such scenes, the moment is the mother of ages!
      Had not Gabriel Honoré been there,—one can well fancy, how the
      Commons Deputies, affrighted at the perils which now yawned dim
      all round them, and waxing ever paler in each other’s paleness,
      might very naturally, one after one, have _glided off;_ and the
      whole course of European History have been different!

      But he is there. List to the _brool_ of that royal forest-voice;
      sorrowful, low; fast swelling to a roar! Eyes kindle at the
      glance of his eye:—National Deputies were missioned by a Nation;
      they have sworn an Oath; they—but lo! while the lion’s voice
      roars loudest, what Apparition is this? Apparition of Mercurius
      de Brézé, muttering somewhat!—‘Speak out,’ cry
      several.—‘Messieurs,’ shrills De Brézé, repeating himself, ‘You
      have heard the King’s orders!’—Mirabeau glares on him with
      fire-flashing face; shakes the black lion’s mane: ‘Yes, Monsieur,
      we have heard what the King was advised to say: and you who
      cannot be the interpreter of his orders to the States-General;
      you, who have neither place nor right of speech here; _you_ are
      not the man to remind us of it. Go, Monsieur, tell these who sent
      you that we are here by the will of the People, and that nothing
      shall send us hence but the force of bayonets!’[153] And poor De
      Brézé shivers forth from the National Assembly;—and also (if it
      be not in one faintest glimmer, months later) finally from the
      page of History!—

      Hapless De Brézé; doomed to survive long ages, in men’s memory,
      in this faint way, with tremulent white rod! He was true to
      Etiquette, which was his Faith here below; a martyr to respect of
      persons. Short woollen cloaks could not kiss Majesty’s hand as
      long velvet ones did. Nay lately, when the poor little Dauphin
      lay dead, and some ceremonial Visitation came, was he not
      punctual to announce it even to the Dauphin’s _dead body:_
      ‘Monseigneur, a Deputation of the States-General!’[154] _Sunt
      lachrymæ rerum._

      But what does the Œil-de-Bœuf, now when De Brézé shivers back
      thither? _Despatch_ that same force of bayonets? Not so: the seas
      of people still hang multitudinous, intent on what is passing;
      nay rush and roll, loud-billowing, into the Courts of the Château
      itself; for a report has risen that Necker is to be dismissed.
      Worst of all, the Gardes Françaises seem indisposed to act: “two
      Companies of them _do not fire_ when ordered!”[155] Necker, for
      not being at the _Séance_, shall be shouted for, carried home in
      triumph; and must not be dismissed. His Grace of Paris, on the
      other hand, has to fly with broken coach-panels, and owe his life
      to furious driving. The _Gardes-du-Corps_ (Body-Guards), which
      you were drawing out, had better be drawn in again.[156] There is
      no sending of bayonets to be thought of.

      Instead of soldiers, the Œil-de-Bœuf sends—carpenters, to take
      down the platform. Ineffectual shift! In few instants, the very
      carpenters cease wrenching and knocking at their platform; stand
      on it, hammer in hand, and listen open-mouthed.[157] The Third
      Estate is decreeing that it is, was, and will be, nothing but a
      National Assembly; and now, moreover, an inviolable one, all
      members of it inviolable: “infamous, traitorous, towards the
      Nation, and guilty of capital crime, is any person,
      body-corporate, tribunal, court or commission that now or
      henceforth, during the present session or after it, shall dare to
      pursue, interrogate, arrest, or cause to be arrested, detain or
      cause to be detained, any,” &c. &c. “_on whose part soever_ the
      same be commanded.”[158] Which done, one can wind up with this
      comfortable reflection from Abbé Sieyes: ‘Messieurs, you are
      today what you were yesterday.’

      Courtiers may shriek; but it is, and remains, even so. Their
      well-charged explosion has exploded _through the touch-hole;_
      covering themselves with scorches, confusion, and unseemly soot!
      Poor Triumvirate, poor Queen; and above all, poor Queen’s
      Husband, who means well, had he any fixed meaning! Folly is that
      wisdom which is wise only behindhand. Few months ago these
      Thirty-five Concessions had filled France with a rejoicing, which
      might have lasted for several years. Now it is unavailing, the
      very mention of it slighted; Majesty’s express orders set at
      nought.

      All France is in a roar; a sea of persons, estimated at “ten
      thousand,” whirls “all this day in the Palais Royal.”[159] The
      remaining Clergy, and likewise some Forty-eight Noblesse,
      D’Orléans among them, have now forthwith gone over to the
      victorious Commons; by whom, as is natural, they are received
      “with acclamation.”

      The Third Estate triumphs; Versailles Town shouting round it; ten
      thousand whirling all day in the Palais Royal; and all France
      standing a-tiptoe, not unlike whirling! Let the Œil-de-Bœuf look
      to it. As for King Louis, he will swallow his injuries; will
      temporise, keep silence; will at all costs have present peace. It
      was Tuesday the 23d of June, when he spoke that peremptory royal
      mandate; and the week is not done till he has written to the
      remaining obstinate Noblesse, that they also must oblige him, and
      give in. D’Espréménil rages his last; Barrel Mirabeau “breaks his
      sword,” making a vow,—which he might as well have kept. The
      “Triple Family” is now therefore complete; the third erring
      brother, the Noblesse, having joined it;—erring but pardonable;
      soothed, so far as possible, by sweet eloquence from President
      Bailly.

      So triumphs the Third Estate; and States-General are become
      National Assembly; and all France may sing _Te Deum_. By wise
      inertia, and wise cessation of inertia, great victory has been
      gained. It is the last night of June: all night you meet nothing
      on the streets of Versailles but “men running with torches” with
      shouts of jubilation. From the 2nd of May when they kissed the
      hand of Majesty, to this 30th of June when men run with torches,
      we count seven weeks complete. For seven weeks the National
      Carroccio has stood far-seen, ringing many a signal; and, so much
      having now gathered round it, may hope to stand.


      Chapter 1.5.III.
      Broglie the War-God.

      The Court feels indignant that it is conquered; but what then?
      Another time it will do better. Mercury descended in vain; now
      has the time come for Mars.—The gods of the Œil-de-Bœuf have
      withdrawn into the darkness of their cloudy Ida; and sit there,
      shaping and forging what may be needful, be it “billets of a new
      National Bank,” munitions of war, or things forever inscrutable
      to men.

      Accordingly, what means this “apparatus of troops”? The National
      Assembly can get no furtherance for its Committee of
      Subsistences; can hear only that, at Paris, the Bakers’ shops are
      besieged; that, in the Provinces, people are living on
      “meal-husks and boiled grass.” But on all highways there hover
      dust-clouds, with the march of regiments, with the trailing of
      cannon: foreign Pandours, of fierce aspect; Salis-Samade,
      Esterhazy, Royal-Allemand; so many of them foreign, to the number
      of thirty thousand,—which fear can magnify to fifty: all wending
      towards Paris and Versailles! Already, on the heights of
      Montmartre, is a digging and delving; too like a scarping and
      trenching. The effluence of Paris is arrested Versailles-ward by
      a barrier of cannon at Sèvres Bridge. From the Queen’s Mews,
      cannon stand pointed on the National Assembly Hall itself. The
      National Assembly has its very slumbers broken by the tramp of
      soldiery, swarming and defiling, endless, or seemingly endless,
      all round those spaces, at dead of night, “without drum-music,
      without audible word of command.”[160] What means it?

      Shall eight, or even shall twelve Deputies, our Mirabeaus,
      Barnaves at the head of them, be whirled suddenly to the Castle
      of Ham; the rest ignominiously dispersed to the winds? No
      National Assembly can make the Constitution with cannon levelled
      on it from the Queen’s Mews! What means this reticence of the
      Œil-de-Bœuf, broken only by nods and shrugs? In the mystery of
      that cloudy Ida, what is it that they forge and shape?—Such
      questions must distracted Patriotism keep asking, and receive no
      answer but an echo.

      Enough of themselves! But now, above all, while the hungry
      food-year, which runs from August to August, is getting older;
      becoming more and more a famine-year? With “meal-husks and boiled
      grass,” Brigands may actually collect; and, in crowds, at farm
      and mansion, howl angrily, _Food! Food!_ It is in vain to send
      soldiers against them: at sight of soldiers they disperse, they
      vanish as under ground; then directly reassemble elsewhere for
      new tumult and plunder. Frightful enough to look upon; but what
      to _hear_ of, reverberated through Twenty-five Millions of
      suspicious minds! Brigands and Broglie, open Conflagration,
      preternatural Rumour are driving mad most hearts in France. What
      will the issue of these things be?

      At Marseilles, many weeks ago, the Townsmen have taken arms; for
      “suppressing of Brigands,” and other purposes: the military
      commandant may make of it what he will. Elsewhere, everywhere,
      could not the like be done? Dubious, on the distracted Patriot
      imagination, wavers, as a last deliverance, some foreshadow of a
      _National Guard_. But conceive, above all, the Wooden Tent in the
      Palais Royal! A universal hubbub there, as of dissolving worlds:
      their loudest bellows the mad, mad-making voice of Rumour; their
      sharpest gazes Suspicion into the pale dim World-Whirlpool;
      discerning shapes and phantasms; imminent bloodthirsty Regiments
      camped on the Champ-de-Mars; dispersed National Assembly; redhot
      cannon-balls (to burn Paris);—the mad War-god and Bellona’s
      sounding thongs. To the calmest man it is becoming too plain that
      battle is inevitable.

      Inevitable, silently nod Messeigneurs and Broglie: Inevitable and
      brief! Your National Assembly, stopped short in its
      Constitutional labours, may fatigue the royal ear with addresses
      and remonstrances: those cannon of ours stand duly levelled;
      those troops are here. The King’s Declaration, with its
      Thirty-five too generous Articles, was spoken, was not listened
      to; but remains yet unrevoked: he himself shall effect it, _seul
      il fera!_

      As for Broglie, he has his headquarters at Versailles, all as in
      a seat of war: clerks writing; significant staff-officers,
      inclined to taciturnity; plumed aides-de-camp, scouts, orderlies
      flying or hovering. He himself looks forth, important,
      impenetrable; listens to Besenval Commandant of Paris, and his
      warning and earnest counsels (for he has come out repeatedly on
      purpose), with a silent smile.[161] The Parisians resist?
      scornfully cry Messeigneurs. As a meal-mob may! They have sat
      quiet, these five generations, submitting to all. Their Mercier
      declared, in these very years, that a Parisian revolt was
      henceforth “impossible.”[162] Stand by the royal Declaration, of
      the Twenty-third of June. The Nobles of France, valorous,
      chivalrous as of old, will rally round us with one heart;—and as
      for this which you call Third Estate, and which we call
      _canaille_ of unwashed Sansculottes, of Patelins, Scribblers,
      factious Spouters,—brave Broglie, “with a whiff of grapeshot
      (_salve de canons_),” if need be, will give quick account of it.
      Thus reason they: on their cloudy Ida; hidden from men,—men also
      hidden from them.

      Good is grapeshot, Messeigneurs, on one condition: that the
      shooter also were made of metal! But unfortunately he is made of
      flesh; under his buffs and bandoleers your hired shooter has
      instincts, feelings, even a kind of thought. It is his kindred,
      bone of his bone, this same _canaille_ that shall be whiffed; he
      has brothers in it, a father and mother,—living on meal-husks and
      boiled grass. His very doxy, not yet “dead i’ the spital,” drives
      him into military heterodoxy; declares that if he shed Patriot
      blood, he shall be accursed among men. The soldier, who has seen
      his pay stolen by rapacious Foulons, his blood wasted by
      Soubises, Pompadours, and the gates of promotion shut inexorably
      on him if he were not born noble,—is himself not without griefs
      against you. Your cause is not the soldier’s cause; but, as would
      seem, your own only, and no other god’s nor man’s.

      For example, the world may have heard how, at Bethune lately,
      when there rose some “riot about grains,” of which sort there are
      so many, and the soldiers stood drawn out, and the word “Fire!
      was given,—not a trigger stirred; only the butts of all muskets
      rattled angrily against the ground; and the soldiers stood
      glooming, with a mixed expression of countenance;—till clutched
      “each under the arm of a patriot householder,” they were all
      hurried off, in this manner, to be treated and caressed, and have
      their pay increased by subscription![163]

      Neither have the Gardes Françaises, the best regiment of the
      line, shown any promptitude for street-firing lately. They
      returned grumbling from Réveillon’s; and have not burnt a single
      cartridge since; nay, as we saw, not even when bid. A dangerous
      humour dwells in these Gardes. Notable men too, in their way!
      Valadi the Pythagorean was, at one time, an officer of theirs.
      Nay, in the ranks, under the three-cornered felt and cockade,
      what hard heads may there not be, and reflections going
      on,—unknown to the public! One head of the hardest we do now
      discern there: on the shoulders of a certain Sergeant Hoche.
      Lazare Hoche, that is the name of him; he used to be about the
      Versailles Royal Stables, nephew of a poor herbwoman; a handy
      lad; exceedingly addicted to reading. He is now Sergeant Hoche,
      and can rise no farther: he lays out his pay in rushlights, and
      cheap editions of books.[164]

      On the whole, the best seems to be: Consign these Gardes
      Françaises to their Barracks. So Besenval thinks, and orders.
      Consigned to their barracks, the Gardes Françaises do but form a
      “Secret Association,” an Engagement not to act against the
      National Assembly. Debauched by Valadi the Pythagorean; debauched
      by money and women! cry Besenval and innumerable others.
      Debauched by what you will, or in need of no debauching, behold
      them, long files of them, their consignment broken, arrive,
      headed by their Sergeants, on the 26th day of June, at the Palais
      Royal! Welcomed with vivats, with presents, and a pledge of
      patriot liquor; embracing and embraced; declaring in words that
      the cause of France is their cause! Next day and the following
      days the like. What is singular too, except this patriot humour,
      and breaking of their consignment, they behave otherwise with
      “the most rigorous accuracy.”[165]

      They are growing questionable, these Gardes! Eleven ring-leaders
      of them are put in the Abbaye Prison. It boots not in the least.
      The imprisoned Eleven have only, “by the hand of an individual,”
      to drop, towards nightfall, a line in the Café de Foy; where
      Patriotism harangues loudest on its table. “Two hundred young
      persons, soon waxing to four thousand,” with fit crowbars, roll
      towards the Abbaye; smite asunder the needful doors; and bear out
      their Eleven, with other military victims:—to supper in the
      Palais Royal Garden; to board, and lodging “in campbeds, in the
      _Théâtre des Variétés;_” other national _Prytaneum_ as yet not
      being in readiness. Most deliberate! Nay so punctual were these
      young persons, that finding one military victim to have been
      imprisoned for real civil crime, they returned him to his cell,
      with protest.

      Why new military force was not called out? New military force was
      called out. New military force did arrive, full gallop, with
      drawn sabre: but the people gently “laid hold of their bridles;”
      the dragoons sheathed their swords; lifted their caps by way of
      salute, and sat like mere statues of dragoons,—except indeed that
      a drop of liquor being brought them, they “drank to the King and
      Nation with the greatest cordiality.”[166]

      And now, ask in return, why Messeigneurs and Broglie the great
      god of war, on seeing these things, did not pause, and take some
      other course, any other course? Unhappily, as we said, they could
      see nothing. Pride, which goes before a fall; wrath, if not
      reasonable, yet pardonable, most natural, had hardened their
      hearts and heated their heads; so, with imbecility and violence
      (ill-matched pair), they rush to seek their hour. All Regiments
      are not Gardes Françaises, or debauched by Valadi the
      Pythagorean: let fresh undebauched Regiments come up; let
      Royal-Allemand, Salais-Samade, Swiss Château-Vieux come up,—which
      can fight, but can hardly speak except in German gutturals; let
      soldiers march, and highways thunder with artillery-waggons:
      Majesty has a new Royal Session to hold,—and miracles to work
      there! The whiff of grapeshot can, if needful, become a blast and
      tempest.

      In which circumstances, before the redhot balls begin raining,
      may not the Hundred-and-twenty Paris Electors, though their
      _Cahier_ is long since finished, see good to meet again daily, as
      an “Electoral Club”? They meet first “in a Tavern;”—where “the
      largest wedding-party” cheerfully give place to them.[167] But
      latterly they meet in the _Hôtel-de-Ville_, in the Townhall
      itself. Flesselles, Provost of Merchants, with his Four Echevins
      (_Scabins_, Assessors), could not prevent it; such was the force
      of public opinion. He, with his Echevins, and the Six-and-Twenty
      Town-Councillors, all appointed from Above, may well sit silent
      there, in their long gowns; and consider, with awed eye, what
      prelude this is of convulsion coming from Below, and how
      themselves shall fare in that!


      Chapter 1.5.IV.
      To Arms!

      So hangs it, dubious, fateful, in the sultry days of July. It is
      the passionate printed _advice_ of M. Marat, to abstain, of all
      things, from violence.[168] Nevertheless the hungry poor are
      already burning Town Barriers, where Tribute on eatables is
      levied; getting clamorous for food.

      The twelfth July morning is Sunday; the streets are all placarded
      with an enormous-sized _De par le Roi_, “inviting peaceable
      citizens to remain within doors,” to feel no alarm, to gather in
      no crowd. Why so? What mean these “placards of enormous size”?
      Above all, what means this clatter of military; dragoons,
      hussars, rattling in from all points of the compass towards the
      Place Louis Quinze; with a staid gravity of face, though saluted
      with mere nicknames, hootings and even missiles?[169] Besenval is
      with them. Swiss Guards of his are already in the Champs Elysées,
      with four pieces of artillery.

      Have the destroyers descended on us, then? From the Bridge of
      Sèvres to utmost Vincennes, from Saint-Denis to the
      Champ-de-Mars, we are begirt! Alarm, of the vague unknown, is in
      every heart. The Palais Royal has become a place of awestruck
      interjections, silent shakings of the head: one can fancy with
      what dolorous sound the noon-tide cannon (which the Sun fires at
      the crossing of his meridian) went off there; bodeful, like an
      inarticulate voice of doom.[170] Are these troops verily come out
      “against Brigands”? Where are the Brigands? What mystery is in
      the wind?—Hark! a human voice reporting articulately the
      Job’s-news: _Necker, People’s Minister, Saviour of France, is
      dismissed_. Impossible; incredible! Treasonous to the public
      peace! Such a voice ought to be choked in the
      water-works;[171]—had not the news-bringer quickly fled.
      Nevertheless, friends, make of it what you will, the news is
      true. Necker is gone. Necker hies northward incessantly, in
      obedient secrecy, since yesternight. We have a new Ministry:
      Broglie the War-god; Aristocrat Bréteuil; Foulon who said the
      people might eat grass!

      Rumour, therefore, shall arise; in the Palais Royal, and in broad
      France. Paleness sits on every face; confused tremor and
      fremescence; waxing into thunder-peals, of Fury stirred on by
      Fear.

      But see Camille Desmoulins, from the Café de Foy, rushing out,
      sibylline in face; his hair streaming, in each hand a pistol! He
      springs to a table: the Police satellites are eyeing him; alive
      they shall not take him, not they alive him alive. This time he
      speaks without stammering:—Friends, shall we die like hunted
      hares? Like sheep hounded into their pinfold; bleating for mercy,
      where is no mercy, but only a whetted knife? The hour is come;
      the supreme hour of Frenchman and Man; when Oppressors are to try
      conclusions with Oppressed; and the word is, swift Death, or
      Deliverance forever. Let such hour be _well_-come! Us, meseems,
      one cry only befits: To Arms! Let universal Paris, universal
      France, as with the throat of the whirlwind, sound only: To
      arms!—‘To arms!’ yell responsive the innumerable voices: like one
      great voice, as of a Demon yelling from the air: for all faces
      wax fire-eyed, all hearts burn up into madness. In such, or
      fitter words,[172] does Camille evoke the Elemental Powers, in
      this great moment.—Friends, continues Camille, some rallying
      sign! Cockades; green ones;—the colour of hope!—As with the
      flight of locusts, these green tree leaves; green ribands from
      the neighbouring shops; all green things are snatched, and made
      cockades of. Camille descends from his table, “stifled with
      embraces, wetted with tears;” has a bit of green riband handed
      him; sticks it in his hat. And now to Curtius’ Image-shop there;
      to the Boulevards; to the four winds; and rest not till France be
      on fire!

      France, so long shaken and wind-parched, is probably at the right
      inflammable point.—As for poor Curtius, who, one grieves to
      think, might be but imperfectly paid,—he cannot make two words
      about his Images. The Wax-bust of Necker, the Wax-bust of
      D’Orléans, helpers of France: these, covered with crape, as in
      funeral procession, or after the manner of suppliants appealing
      to Heaven, to Earth, and Tartarus itself, a mixed multitude bears
      off. For a sign! As indeed man, with his singular imaginative
      faculties, can do little or nothing without signs: thus Turks
      look to their Prophet’s banner; also Osier _Mannikins_ have been
      burnt, and Necker’s Portrait has erewhile figured, aloft on its
      perch.

      In this manner march they, a mixed, continually increasing
      multitude; armed with axes, staves and miscellanea; grim,
      many-sounding, through the streets. Be all Theatres shut; let all
      dancing, on planked floor, or on the natural greensward, cease!
      Instead of a Christian Sabbath, and feast of _guinguette_
      tabernacles, it shall be a Sorcerer’s Sabbath; and Paris, gone
      rabid, dance,—with the Fiend for piper!

      However, Besenval, with horse and foot, is in the Place Louis
      Quinze. Mortals promenading homewards, in the fall of the day,
      saunter by, from Chaillot or Passy, from flirtation and a little
      thin wine; with sadder step than usual. Will the Bust-Procession
      pass that way! Behold it; behold also Prince Lambesc dash forth
      on it, with his Royal-Allemands! Shots fall, and sabre-strokes;
      Busts are hewn asunder; and, alas, also heads of men. A sabred
      Procession has nothing for it but to _explode_, along what
      streets, alleys, Tuileries Avenues it finds; and disappear. One
      unarmed man lies hewed down; a Garde Française by his uniform:
      bear him (or bear even the report of him) dead and gory to his
      Barracks;—where he has comrades still alive!

      But why not now, victorious Lambesc, charge through that
      Tuileries Garden itself, where the fugitives are vanishing? Not
      show the Sunday promenaders too, how steel glitters, besprent
      with blood; that it be told of, and men’s ears tingle?—Tingle,
      alas, they did; but the wrong way. Victorious Lambesc, in this
      his second or Tuileries charge, succeeds but in overturning (call
      it not slashing, for he struck with the flat of his sword) one
      man, a poor old schoolmaster, most pacifically tottering there;
      and is driven out, by barricade of chairs, by flights of “bottles
      and glasses,” by execrations in bass voice and treble. Most
      delicate is the mob-queller’s vocation; wherein Too-much may be
      as bad as Not-enough. For each of these bass voices, and more
      each treble voice, borne to all points of the City, rings now
      nothing but distracted indignation; will ring all another. The
      cry, _To arms!_ roars tenfold; steeples with their metal
      storm-voice boom out, as the sun sinks; armorer’s shops are
      broken open, plundered; the streets are a living foam-sea, chafed
      by all the winds.

      Such issue came of Lambesc’s charge on the Tuileries Garden: no
      striking of salutary terror into Chaillot promenaders; a striking
      into broad wakefulness of Frenzy and the three Furies,—which
      otherwise were not asleep! For they lie always, those
      subterranean Eumenides (fabulous and yet so true), in the dullest
      existence of man;—and can dance, brandishing their dusky torches,
      shaking their serpent-hair. Lambesc with Royal-Allemand may ride
      to his barracks, with curses for his marching-music; then ride
      back again, like one troubled in mind: vengeful Gardes
      Françaises, _sacre_ing, with knit brows, start out on him, from
      their barracks in the Chaussé d’Antin; pour a volley into him
      (killing and wounding); which he must not answer, but ride
      on.[173]

      Counsel dwells not under the plumed hat. If the Eumenides awaken,
      and Broglie has given no orders, what can a Besenval do? When the
      Gardes Françaises, with Palais-Royal volunteers, roll down,
      greedy of more vengeance, to the Place Louis Quinze itself, they
      find neither Besenval, Lambesc, Royal-Allemand, nor any soldier
      now there. Gone is military order. On the far Eastern Boulevard,
      of Saint-Antoine, the Chasseurs Normandie arrive, dusty, thirsty,
      after a hard day’s ride; but can find no billet-master, see no
      course in this City of confusions; cannot get to Besenval, cannot
      so much as discover where he is: Normandie must even bivouac
      there, in its dust and thirst,—unless some patriot will treat it
      to a cup of liquor, with advices.

      Raging multitudes surround the Hôtel-de-Ville, crying: Arms!
      Orders! The Six-and-twenty Town-Councillors, with their long
      gowns, have ducked under (into the raging chaos);—shall never
      emerge more. Besenval is painfully wriggling himself out, to the
      Champ-de-Mars; he must sit there “in the cruelest uncertainty:”
      courier after courier may dash off for Versailles; but will bring
      back no answer, can hardly bring himself back. For the roads are
      all blocked with batteries and pickets, with floods of carriages
      arrested for examination: such was Broglie’s one sole order; the
      Œil-de-Bœuf, hearing in the distance such mad din, which sounded
      almost like invasion, will before all things keep its own head
      whole. A new Ministry, with, as it were, but one foot in the
      stirrup, cannot take leaps. Mad Paris is abandoned altogether to
      itself.

      What a Paris, when the darkness fell! A European metropolitan
      City hurled suddenly forth from its old combinations and
      arrangements; to crash tumultuously together, seeking new. Use
      and wont will now no longer direct any man; each man, with what
      of originality he has, must begin thinking; or following those
      that think. Seven hundred thousand individuals, on the sudden,
      find all their old paths, old ways of acting and deciding, vanish
      from under their feet. And so there go they, with clangour and
      terror, they know not as yet whether running, swimming or
      flying,—headlong into the New Era. With clangour and terror: from
      above, Broglie the war-god impends, preternatural, with his
      redhot cannon-balls; and from below, a preternatural
      Brigand-world menaces with dirk and firebrand: madness rules the
      hour.

      Happily, in place of the submerged Twenty-six, the Electoral Club
      is gathering; has declared itself a “Provisional Municipality.”
      On the morrow it will get Provost Flesselles, with an Echevin or
      two, to give help in many things. For the present it decrees one
      most essential thing: that forthwith a “Parisian Militia” shall
      be enrolled. Depart, ye heads of Districts, to labour in this
      great work; while we here, in Permanent Committee, sit alert. Let
      fencible men, each party in its own range of streets, keep watch
      and ward, all night. Let Paris court a little fever-sleep;
      confused by such fever-dreams, of “violent motions at the Palais
      Royal;”—or from time to time start awake, and look out,
      palpitating, in its nightcap, at the clash of discordant
      mutually-unintelligible Patrols; on the gleam of distant
      Barriers, going up all-too ruddy towards the vault of Night.[174]


      Chapter 1.5.V.
      Give us Arms.

      On Monday the huge City has awoke, not to its week-day industry:
      to what a different one! The working man has become a fighting
      man; has one want only: that of arms. The industry of all crafts
      has paused;—except it be the smith’s, fiercely hammering pikes;
      and, in a faint degree, the kitchener’s, cooking off-hand
      victuals; for _bouche va toujours_. Women too are sewing
      cockades;—not now of green, which being D’Artois colour, the
      Hôtel-de-Ville has had to interfere in it; but of _red_ and
      _blue_, our old Paris colours: these, once based on a ground of
      constitutional _white_, are the famed TRICOLOR,—which (if
      Prophecy err not) “will go round the world.”

      All shops, unless it be the Bakers’ and Vintners’, are shut:
      Paris is in the streets;—rushing, foaming like some Venice
      wine-glass into which you had dropped poison. The tocsin, by
      order, is pealing madly from all steeples. Arms, ye Elector
      Municipals; thou Flesselles with thy Echevins, give us arms!
      Flesselles gives what he can: fallacious, perhaps insidious
      promises of arms from Charleville; order to seek arms here, order
      to seek them there. The new Municipals give what they can; some
      three hundred and sixty indifferent firelocks, the equipment of
      the City-Watch: “a man in wooden shoes, and without coat,
      directly clutches one of them, and mounts guard.” Also as hinted,
      an order to all Smiths to make pikes with their whole soul.

      Heads of Districts are in fervent consultation; subordinate
      Patriotism roams distracted, ravenous for arms. Hitherto at the
      Hôtel-de-Ville was only such modicum of indifferent firelocks as
      we have seen. At the so-called Arsenal, there lies nothing but
      rust, rubbish and saltpetre,—overlooked too by the guns of the
      Bastille. His Majesty’s Repository, what they call
      _Garde-Meuble_, is forced and ransacked: tapestries enough, and
      gauderies; but of serviceable fighting-gear small stock! Two
      silver-mounted cannons there are; an ancient gift from his
      Majesty of Siam to Louis Fourteenth: gilt sword of the Good
      Henri; antique Chivalry arms and armour. These, and such as
      these, a necessitous Patriotism snatches greedily, for want of
      better. The Siamese cannons go trundling, on an errand they were
      not meant for. Among the indifferent firelocks are seen
      tourney-lances; the princely helm and hauberk glittering amid
      ill-hatted heads,—as in a time when all times and their
      possessions are suddenly sent jumbling!

      At the _Maison de Saint-Lazare_, Lazar-House once, now a
      Correction-House with Priests, there was no trace of arms; but,
      on the other hand, corn, plainly to a culpable extent. Out with
      it, to market; in this scarcity of grains!—Heavens, will
      “fifty-two carts,” in long row, hardly carry it to the _Halle aux
      Bleds?_ Well, truly, ye reverend Fathers, was your pantry filled;
      fat are your larders; over-generous your wine-bins, ye plotting
      exasperators of the Poor; traitorous forestallers of bread!

      Vain is protesting, entreaty on bare knees: the House of
      Saint-Lazarus has that in it which comes not out by protesting.
      Behold, how, from every window, it _vomits:_ mere torrents of
      furniture, of bellowing and hurlyburly;—the cellars also leaking
      wine. Till, as was natural, smoke rose,—kindled, some say, by the
      desperate Saint-Lazaristes themselves, desperate of other
      riddance; and the Establishment vanished from this world in
      flame. Remark nevertheless that “a thief” (set on or not by
      Aristocrats), being detected there, is “instantly hanged.”

      Look also at the Châtelet Prison. The Debtors’ Prison of La Force
      is broken from without; and they that sat in bondage to
      Aristocrats go free: hearing of which the Felons at the Châtelet
      do likewise “dig up their pavements,” and stand on the offensive;
      with the best prospects,—had not Patriotism, passing that way,
      “fired a volley” into the Felon world; and crushed it down again
      under hatches. Patriotism consorts not with thieving and felony:
      surely also Punishment, this day, hitches (if she still hitch)
      after Crime, with frightful shoes-of-swiftness! “Some score or
      two” of wretched persons, found prostrate with drink in the
      cellars of that Saint-Lazare, are indignantly haled to prison;
      the Jailor has no room; whereupon, other place of security not
      suggesting itself, it is written, “_on les pendit_, they hanged
      them.”[175] Brief is the word; not without significance, be it
      true or untrue!

      In such circumstances, the Aristocrat, the unpatriotic rich man
      is packing-up for departure. But he shall not get departed. A
      wooden-shod force has seized all Barriers, burnt or not: all that
      enters, all that seeks to issue, is stopped there, and dragged to
      the Hôtel-de-Ville: coaches, tumbrils, plate, furniture, “many
      meal-sacks,” in time even “flocks and herds” encumber the Place
      de Grève.[176]

      And so it roars, and rages, and brays; drums beating, steeples
      pealing; criers rushing with hand-bells: ‘Oyez, oyez. All men to
      their Districts to be enrolled!’ The Districts have met in
      gardens, open squares; are getting marshalled into volunteer
      troops. No redhot ball has yet fallen from Besenval’s Camp; on
      the contrary, Deserters with their arms are continually dropping
      in: nay now, joy of joys, at two in the afternoon, the Gardes
      Françaises, being ordered to Saint-Denis, and flatly declining,
      have come over in a body! It is a fact worth many. Three thousand
      six hundred of the best fighting men, with complete accoutrement;
      with cannoneers even, and cannon! Their officers are left
      standing alone; could not so much as succeed in “spiking the
      guns.” The very Swiss, it may now be hoped, Château-Vieux and the
      others, will have doubts about fighting.

      Our Parisian Militia,—which some think it were better to name
      National Guard,—is prospering as heart could wish. It promised to
      be forty-eight thousand; but will in few hours double and
      quadruple that number: invincible, if we had only arms!

      But see, the promised Charleville Boxes, marked _Artillerie!_
      Here, then, are arms enough?—Conceive the blank face of
      Patriotism, when it found them filled with rags, foul linen,
      candle-ends, and bits of wood! Provost of the Merchants, how is
      this? Neither at the Chartreux Convent, whither we were sent with
      signed order, is there or ever was there any weapon of war. Nay
      here, in this Seine Boat, safe under tarpaulings (had not the
      nose of Patriotism been of the finest), are “five thousand-weight
      of gunpowder;” not coming _in_, but surreptitiously going out!
      What meanest thou, Flesselles? ’Tis a ticklish game, that of
      “amusing” us. Cat plays with captive mouse: but mouse with
      enraged cat, with enraged National Tiger?

      Meanwhile, the faster, O ye black-aproned Smiths, smite; with
      strong arm and willing heart. This man and that, all stroke from
      head to heel, shall thunder alternating, and ply the great
      forge-hammer, till stithy reel and ring again; while ever and
      anon, overhead, booms the alarm-cannon,—for the City has now got
      gunpowder. Pikes are fabricated; fifty thousand of them, in
      six-and-thirty hours: judge whether the Black-aproned have been
      idle. Dig trenches, unpave the streets, ye others, assiduous, man
      and maid; cram the earth in barrel-barricades, at each of them a
      volunteer sentry; pile the whinstones in window-sills and upper
      rooms. Have scalding pitch, at least boiling water ready, ye weak
      old women, to pour it and dash it on Royal-Allemand, with your
      old skinny arms: your shrill curses along with it will not be
      wanting!—Patrols of the newborn National Guard, bearing torches,
      scour the streets, all that night; which otherwise are vacant,
      yet illuminated in every window by order. Strange-looking; like
      some naphtha-lighted City of the Dead, with here and there a
      flight of perturbed Ghosts.

      O poor mortals, how ye make this Earth bitter for each other;
      this fearful and wonderful Life fearful and horrible; and Satan
      has his place in all hearts! Such agonies and ragings and
      wailings ye have, and have had, in all times:—to be buried all,
      in so deep silence; and the salt sea is not swoln with your
      tears.

      Great meanwhile is the moment, when tidings of Freedom reach us;
      when the long-enthralled soul, from amid its chains and squalid
      stagnancy, arises, were it still only in blindness and
      bewilderment, and swears by Him that made it, that it will be
      _free!_ Free? Understand that well, it is the deep commandment,
      dimmer or clearer, of our whole being, to be _free_. Freedom is
      the one purport, wisely aimed at, or unwisely, of all man’s
      struggles, toilings and sufferings, in this Earth. Yes, supreme
      is such a moment (if thou have known it): first vision as of a
      flame-girt Sinai, in this our waste Pilgrimage,—which thenceforth
      wants not its pillar of cloud by day, and pillar of fire by
      night! Something it is even,—nay, something considerable, when
      the chains have grown _corrosive_, poisonous, to be free “from
      oppression by our fellow-man.” Forward, ye maddened sons of
      France; be it towards this destiny or towards that! Around you is
      but starvation, falsehood, corruption and the clam of death.
      Where ye are is no abiding.

      Imagination may, imperfectly, figure how Commandant Besenval, in
      the Champ-de-Mars, has worn out these sorrowful hours
      Insurrection all round; his men melting away! From Versailles, to
      the most pressing messages, comes no answer; or once only some
      vague word of answer which is worse than none. A Council of
      Officers can decide merely that there is no decision: Colonels
      inform him, “weeping,” that they do not think their men will
      fight. Cruel uncertainty is here: war-god Broglie sits yonder,
      inaccessible in his Olympus; does not descend terror-clad, does
      not produce his whiff of grapeshot; sends no orders.

      Truly, in the Château of Versailles all seems mystery: in the
      Town of Versailles, were we there, all is rumour, alarm and
      indignation. An august National Assembly sits, to appearance,
      menaced with death; endeavouring to defy death. It has resolved
      “that Necker carries with him the regrets of the Nation.” It has
      sent solemn Deputation over to the Château, with entreaty to have
      these troops withdrawn. In vain: his Majesty, with a singular
      composure, invites us to be busy rather with our own duty, making
      the Constitution! Foreign Pandours, and suchlike, go pricking and
      prancing, with a swashbuckler air; with an eye too probably to
      the _Salle des Menus_,—were it not for the “grim-looking
      countenances” that crowd all avenues there.[177] Be firm, ye
      National Senators; the cynosure of a firm, grim-looking people!

      The august National Senators determine that there shall, at
      least, be Permanent Session till this thing end. Wherein,
      however, consider that worthy Lafranc de Pompignan, our new
      President, whom we have named Bailly’s successor, is an old man,
      wearied with many things. He is the Brother of that Pompignan who
      meditated lamentably on the Book of _Lamentations:_

     Saves-voux pourquoi Jérémie
     Se lamentait toute sa vie?
     C’est qu’il prévoyait
     Que Pompignan le traduirait!


      Poor Bishop Pompignan withdraws; having got Lafayette for helper
      or substitute: this latter, as nocturnal Vice-President, with a
      thin house in disconsolate humour, sits sleepless, with lights
      unsnuffed;—waiting what the hours will bring.

      So at Versailles. But at Paris, agitated Besenval, before
      retiring for the night, has stept over to old M. de Sombreuil, of
      the _Hôtel des Invalides_ hard by. M. de Sombreuil has, what is a
      great secret, some eight-and-twenty thousand stand of muskets
      deposited in his cellars there; but no trust in the temper of his
      Invalides. This day, for example, he sent twenty of the fellows
      down to unscrew those muskets; lest Sedition might snatch at
      them; but scarcely, in six hours, had the twenty unscrewed twenty
      gun-locks, or dogsheads (_chiens_) of locks,—each Invalide his
      dogshead! If ordered to fire, they would, he imagines, turn their
      cannon against himself.

      Unfortunate old military gentlemen, it is your hour, not of
      glory! Old Marquis de Launay too, of the Bastille, has pulled up
      his drawbridges long since, “and retired into his interior;” with
      sentries walking on his battlements, under the midnight sky,
      aloft over the glare of illuminated Paris;—whom a National
      Patrol, passing that way, takes the liberty of firing at; “seven
      shots towards twelve at night,” which do not take effect.[178]
      This was the 13th day of July, 1789; a worse day, many said, than
      the last 13th was, when only hail fell out of Heaven, not madness
      rose out of Tophet, ruining worse than crops!

      In these same days, as Chronology will teach us, hot old Marquis
      Mirabeau lies stricken down, at Argenteuil,—_not_ within sound of
      these alarm-guns; for _he_ properly is not there, and only the
      body of him now lies, deaf and cold forever. It was on Saturday
      night that he, drawing his last life-breaths, gave up the ghost
      there;—leaving a world, which would never go to his mind, now
      broken out, seemingly, into deliration and the _culbute
      générale_. What is it to him, departing elsewhither, on his long
      journey? The old Château Mirabeau stands silent, far off, on its
      scarped rock, in that “gorge of two windy valleys;” the
      pale-fading spectre now of a Château: this huge World-riot, and
      France, and the World itself, fades also, like a shadow on the
      great still mirror-sea; and all shall be as God wills.

      Young Mirabeau, sad of heart, for he loved this crabbed brave old
      Father, sad of heart, and occupied with sad cares,—is withdrawn
      from Public History. The great crisis transacts itself without
      him.[179]


      Chapter 1.5.VI.
      Storm and Victory.

      But, to the living and the struggling, a new, Fourteenth morning
      dawns. Under all roofs of this distracted City, is the nodus of a
      drama, not untragical, crowding towards solution. The bustlings
      and preparings, the tremors and menaces; the tears that fell from
      old eyes! This day, my sons, ye shall quit you like men. By the
      memory of your fathers’ wrongs, by the hope of your children’s
      rights! Tyranny impends in red wrath: help for you is none if not
      in your own right hands. This day ye must do or die.

      From earliest light, a sleepless Permanent Committee has heard
      the old cry, now waxing almost frantic, mutinous: Arms! Arms!
      Provost Flesselles, or what traitors there are among you, may
      think of those Charleville Boxes. A hundred-and-fifty thousand of
      us; and but the third man furnished with so much as a pike! Arms
      are the one thing needful: with arms we are an unconquerable
      man-defying National Guard; without arms, a rabble to be whiffed
      with grapeshot.

      Happily the word has arisen, for no secret can be kept,—that
      there lie muskets at the _Hôtel des Invalides_. Thither will we:
      King’s Procureur M. Ethys de Corny, and whatsoever of authority a
      Permanent Committee can lend, shall go with us. Besenval’s Camp
      is there; perhaps he will not fire on us; if he kill us we shall
      but die.

      Alas, poor Besenval, with his troops melting away in that manner,
      has not the smallest humour to fire! At five o’clock this
      morning, as he lay dreaming, oblivious in the _Ecole Militaire_,
      a “figure” stood suddenly at his bedside: “with face rather
      handsome; eyes inflamed, speech rapid and curt, air audacious:”
      such a figure drew Priam’s curtains! The message and monition of
      the figure was, that resistance would be hopeless; that if blood
      flowed, wo to him who shed it. Thus spoke the figure; and
      vanished. “Withal there was a kind of eloquence that struck one.”
      Besenval admits that he should have arrested him, but did
      not.[180] Who this figure, with inflamed eyes, with speech rapid
      and curt, might be? Besenval knows but mentions not. Camille
      Desmoulins? Pythagorean Marquis Valadi, inflamed with “violent
      motions all night at the Palais Royal?” Fame names him, “Young M.
      Meillar”;[181] Then shuts her lips about him for ever.

      In any case, behold about nine in the morning, our National
      Volunteers rolling in long wide flood, south-westward to the
      _Hôtel des Invalides;_ in search of the one thing needful. King’s
      procureur M. Ethys de Corny and officials are there; the Curé of
      Saint-Etienne du Mont marches unpacific, at the head of his
      militant Parish; the Clerks of the Bazoche in red coats we see
      marching, now Volunteers of the Bazoche; the Volunteers of the
      Palais Royal:—National Volunteers, numerable by tens of
      thousands; of one heart and mind. The King’s muskets are the
      Nation’s; think, old M. de Sombreuil, how, in this extremity,
      thou wilt refuse them! Old M. de Sombreuil would fain hold
      parley, send Couriers; but it skills not: the walls are scaled,
      no Invalide firing a shot; the gates must be flung open.
      Patriotism rushes in, tumultuous, from grundsel up to ridge-tile,
      through all rooms and passages; rummaging distractedly for arms.
      What cellar, or what cranny can escape it? The arms are found;
      all safe there; lying packed in straw,—apparently with a view to
      being burnt! More ravenous than famishing lions over dead prey,
      the multitude, with clangour and vociferation, pounces on them;
      struggling, dashing, clutching:—to the jamming-up, to the
      pressure, fracture and probable extinction, of the weaker
      Patriot.[182] And so, with such protracted crash of deafening,
      most discordant Orchestra-music, the Scene is changed: and
      eight-and-twenty thousand sufficient firelocks are on the
      shoulders of so many National Guards, lifted thereby out of
      darkness into fiery light.

      Let Besenval look at the glitter of these muskets, as they flash
      by! Gardes Françaises, it is said, have cannon levelled on him;
      ready to open, if need were, from the other side of the
      River.[183] Motionless sits he; “astonished,” one may flatter
      oneself, “at the proud bearing (_fière contenance_) of the
      Parisians.”—And now, to the Bastille, ye intrepid Parisians!
      There grapeshot still threatens; thither all men’s thoughts and
      steps are now tending.

      Old de Launay, as we hinted, withdrew “into his interior” soon
      after midnight of Sunday. He remains there ever since, hampered,
      as all military gentlemen now are, in the saddest conflict of
      uncertainties. The Hôtel-de-Ville “invites” him to admit National
      Soldiers, which is a soft name for surrendering. On the other
      hand, His Majesty’s orders were precise. His garrison is but
      eighty-two old Invalides, reinforced by thirty-two young Swiss;
      his walls indeed are nine feet thick, he has cannon and powder;
      but, alas, only one day’s provision of victuals. The city too is
      French, the poor garrison mostly French. Rigorous old de Launay,
      think what thou wilt do!

      All morning, since nine, there has been a cry everywhere: To the
      Bastille! Repeated “deputations of citizens” have been here,
      passionate for arms; whom de Launay has got dismissed by soft
      speeches through portholes. Towards noon, Elector Thuriot de la
      Rosiere gains admittance; finds de Launay indisposed for
      surrender; nay disposed for blowing up the place rather. Thuriot
      mounts with him to the battlements: heaps of paving-stones, old
      iron and missiles lie piled; cannon all duly levelled; in every
      embrasure a cannon,—only drawn back a little! But outwards
      behold, O Thuriot, how the multitude flows on, welling through
      every street; tocsin furiously pealing, all drums beating the
      _générale:_ the Suburb Saint-Antoine rolling hitherward wholly,
      as one man! Such vision (spectral yet real) thou, O Thuriot, as
      from thy Mount of Vision, beholdest in this moment: prophetic of
      what other Phantasmagories, and loud-gibbering Spectral
      Realities, which, thou yet beholdest not, but shalt! ‘_Que voulez
      vous?_’ said de Launay, turning pale at the sight, with an air of
      reproach, almost of menace. ‘Monsieur,’ said Thuriot, rising into
      the moral-sublime, ‘What mean _you?_ Consider if I could not
      precipitate _both_ of us from this height,’—say only a hundred
      feet, exclusive of the walled ditch! Whereupon de Launay fell
      silent. Thuriot shews himself from some pinnacle, to comfort the
      multitude becoming suspicious, fremescent: then descends; departs
      with protest; with warning addressed also to the Invalides,—on
      whom, however, it produces but a mixed indistinct impression. The
      old heads are none of the clearest; besides, it is said, de
      Launay has been profuse of beverages (_prodigua des buissons_).
      They think, they will not fire,—if not fired on, if they can help
      it; but must, on the whole, be ruled considerably by
      circumstances.

      Wo to thee, de Launay, in such an hour, if thou canst not, taking
      some one firm decision, _rule_ circumstances! Soft speeches will
      not serve; hard grape-shot is questionable; but hovering between
      the two is _un_questionable. Ever wilder swells the tide of men;
      their infinite hum waxing ever louder, into imprecations, perhaps
      into crackle of stray musketry,—which latter, on walls nine feet
      thick, cannot do execution. The Outer Drawbridge has been lowered
      for Thuriot; new _deputation of citizens_ (it is the third, and
      noisiest of all) penetrates that way into the Outer Court: soft
      speeches producing no clearance of these, de Launay gives fire;
      pulls up his Drawbridge. A slight sputter;—which has _kindled_
      the too combustible chaos; made it a roaring fire-chaos! Bursts
      forth insurrection, at sight of its own blood (for there were
      deaths by that sputter of fire), into endless rolling explosion
      of musketry, distraction, execration;—and overhead, from the
      Fortress, let one great gun, with its grape-shot, go booming, to
      shew what we _could_ do. The Bastille is besieged!

      On, then, all Frenchmen that have hearts in their bodies! Roar
      with all your throats, of cartilage and metal, ye Sons of
      Liberty; stir spasmodically whatsoever of utmost faculty is in
      you, soul, body or spirit; for it is the hour! Smite, thou Louis
      Tournay, cartwright of the Marais, old-soldier of the Regiment
      Dauphine; smite at that Outer Drawbridge chain, though the fiery
      hail whistles round thee! Never, over nave or felloe, did thy axe
      strike such a stroke. Down with it, man; down with it to Orcus:
      let the whole accursed Edifice sink thither, and Tyranny be
      swallowed up for ever! Mounted, some say on the roof of the
      guard-room, some “on bayonets stuck into joints of the wall,”
      Louis Tournay smites, brave Aubin Bonnemere (also an old soldier)
      seconding him: the chain yields, breaks; the huge Drawbridge
      slams down, thundering (_avec fracas_). Glorious: and yet, alas,
      it is still but the outworks. The Eight grim Towers, with their
      Invalides’ musketry, their paving stones and cannon-mouths, still
      soar aloft intact;—Ditch yawning impassable, stone-faced; the
      inner Drawbridge with its _back_ towards us: the Bastille is
      still to take!

      To describe this Siege of the Bastille (thought to be one of the
      most important in history) perhaps transcends the talent of
      mortals. Could one but, after infinite reading, get to understand
      so much as the plan of the building! But there is open Esplanade,
      at the end of the Rue Saint-Antoine; there are such Forecourts,
      _Cour Avancé, Cour de l’Orme_, arched Gateway (where Louis
      Tournay now fights); then new drawbridges, dormant-bridges,
      rampart-bastions, and the grim Eight Towers: a labyrinthic Mass,
      high-frowning there, of all ages from twenty years to four
      hundred and twenty;—beleaguered, in this its last hour, as we
      said, by mere Chaos come again! Ordnance of all calibres; throats
      of all capacities; men of all plans, every man his own engineer:
      seldom since the war of Pygmies and Cranes was there seen so
      anomalous a thing. Half-pay Elie is home for a suit of
      regimentals; no one would heed him in coloured clothes: half-pay
      Hulin is haranguing Gardes Françaises in the Place de Grève.
      Frantic Patriots pick up the grape-shots; bear them, still hot
      (or seemingly so), to the Hôtel-de-Ville:—Paris, you perceive, is
      to be burnt! Flesselles is “pale to the very lips” for the roar
      of the multitude grows deep. Paris wholly has got to the acme of
      its frenzy; whirled, all ways, by panic madness. At every
      street-barricade, there whirls simmering, a minor
      whirlpool,—strengthening the barricade, since God knows what is
      coming; and all minor whirlpools play distractedly into that
      grand Fire-Mahlstrom which is lashing round the Bastille.

      And so it lashes and it roars. Cholat the wine-merchant has
      become an impromptu cannoneer. See Georget, of the Marine
      Service, fresh from Brest, ply the King of Siam’s cannon.
      Singular (if we were not used to the like): Georget lay, last
      night, taking his ease at his inn; the King of Siam’s cannon also
      lay, knowing nothing of _him_, for a hundred years. Yet now, at
      the right instant, they have got together, and discourse eloquent
      music. For, hearing what was toward, Georget sprang from the
      Brest Diligence, and ran. Gardes Françaises also will be here,
      with real artillery: were not the walls so thick!—Upwards from
      the Esplanade, horizontally from all neighbouring roofs and
      windows, flashes one irregular deluge of musketry,—without
      effect. The Invalides lie flat, firing comparatively at their
      ease from behind stone; hardly through portholes, shew the tip of
      a nose. We fall, shot; and make no impression!

      Let conflagration rage; of whatsoever is combustible! Guard-rooms
      are burnt, Invalides mess-rooms. A distracted “Peruke-maker with
      two fiery torches” is for burning “the saltpetres of the
      Arsenal;”—had not a woman run screaming; had not a Patriot, with
      some tincture of Natural Philosophy, instantly struck the wind
      out of him (butt of musket on pit of stomach), overturned
      barrels, and stayed the devouring element. A young beautiful
      lady, seized escaping in these Outer Courts, and thought falsely
      to be de Launay’s daughter, shall be burnt in de Launay’s sight;
      she lies swooned on a paillasse: but again a Patriot, it is brave
      Aubin Bonnemere the old soldier, dashes in, and rescues her.
      Straw is burnt; three cartloads of it, hauled thither, go up in
      white smoke: almost to the choking of Patriotism itself; so that
      Elie had, with singed brows, to drag back one cart; and Reole the
      “gigantic haberdasher” another. Smoke as of Tophet; confusion as
      of Babel; noise as of the Crack of Doom!

      Blood flows, the aliment of new madness. The wounded are carried
      into houses of the Rue Cerisaie; the dying leave their last
      mandate not to yield till the accursed Stronghold fall. And yet,
      alas, how fall? The walls are so thick! Deputations, three in
      number, arrive from the Hôtel-de-Ville; Abbé Fouchet (who was of
      one) can say, with what almost superhuman courage of
      benevolence.[184] These wave their Town-flag in the arched
      Gateway; and stand, rolling their drum; but to no purpose. In
      such Crack of Doom, de Launay cannot hear them, dare not believe
      them: they return, with justified rage, the whew of lead still
      singing in their ears. What to do? The Firemen are here,
      squirting with their fire-pumps on the Invalides’ cannon, to wet
      the touchholes; they unfortunately cannot squirt so high; but
      produce only clouds of spray. Individuals of classical knowledge
      propose _catapults_. Santerre, the sonorous Brewer of the Suburb
      Saint-Antoine, advises rather that the place be fired, by a
      “mixture of phosphorous and oil-of-turpentine spouted up through
      forcing pumps:” O Spinola-Santerre, hast thou the mixture
      _ready?_ Every man his own engineer! And still the fire-deluge
      abates not; even women are firing, and Turks; at least one woman
      (with her sweetheart), and one Turk.[185] Gardes Françaises have
      come: real cannon, real cannoneers. Usher Maillard is busy;
      half-pay Elie, half-pay Hulin rage in the midst of thousands.

      How the great Bastille Clock ticks (inaudible) in its Inner Court
      there, at its ease, hour after hour; as if nothing special, for
      it or the world, were passing! It tolled One when the firing
      began; and is now pointing towards Five, and still the firing
      slakes not.—Far down, in their vaults, the seven Prisoners hear
      muffled din as of earthquakes; their Turnkeys answer vaguely.

      Wo to thee, de Launay, with thy poor hundred Invalides! Broglie
      is distant, and his ears heavy: Besenval hears, but can send no
      help. One poor troop of Hussars has crept, reconnoitring,
      cautiously along the Quais, as far as the Pont Neuf. ‘We are come
      to join you,’ said the Captain; for the crowd seems shoreless. A
      large-headed dwarfish individual, of smoke-bleared aspect,
      shambles forward, opening his blue lips, for there is sense in
      him; and croaks: ‘Alight then, and give up your arms!’ the
      Hussar-Captain is too happy to be escorted to the Barriers, and
      dismissed on parole. Who the squat individual was? Men answer, it
      is M. Marat, author of the excellent pacific _Avis au Peuple!_
      Great truly, O thou remarkable Dogleech, is this thy day of
      emergence and new birth: and yet this same day come four
      years—!—But let the curtains of the future hang.

      What shall de Launay do? One thing only de Launay could have
      done: what he said he would do. Fancy him sitting, from the
      first, with lighted taper, within arm’s length of the
      Powder-Magazine; motionless, like old Roman Senator, or bronze
      Lamp-holder; coldly apprising Thuriot, and all men, by a slight
      motion of his eye, what his resolution was:—Harmless he sat
      there, while unharmed; but the King’s Fortress, meanwhile, could,
      might, would, or should, in nowise, be surrendered, save to the
      King’s Messenger: one old man’s life worthless, so it be lost
      with honour; but think, ye brawling _canaille_, how will it be
      when a whole Bastille springs skyward!—In such statuesque,
      taper-holding attitude, one fancies de Launay might have left
      Thuriot, the red Clerks of the Bazoche, Curé of Saint-Stephen and
      all the tagrag-and-bobtail of the world, to work their will.

      And yet, withal, he could not do it. Hast thou considered how
      each man’s heart is so tremulously responsive to the hearts of
      all men; hast thou noted how omnipotent is the very sound of many
      men? How their shriek of indignation palsies the strong soul;
      their howl of contumely withers with unfelt pangs? The Ritter
      Gluck confessed that the ground-tone of the noblest passage, in
      one of his noblest Operas, was the voice of the Populace he had
      heard at Vienna, crying to their Kaiser: Bread! Bread! Great is
      the combined voice of men; the utterance of their _instincts_,
      which are truer than their _thoughts:_ it is the greatest a man
      encounters, among the sounds and shadows, which make up this
      World of Time. He who can resist that, has his footing some where
      _beyond_ Time. De Launay could not do it. Distracted, he hovers
      between the two; hopes in the middle of despair; surrenders not
      his Fortress; declares that he will blow it up, seizes torches to
      blow it up, and does not blow it. Unhappy old de Launay, it is
      the death-agony of thy Bastille and thee! Jail, Jailoring and
      Jailor, all three, such as they may have been, must finish.

      For four hours now has the World-Bedlam roared: call it the
      World-Chimaera, blowing fire! The poor Invalides have sunk under
      their battlements, or rise only with reversed muskets: they have
      made a white flag of napkins; go beating the _chamade_, or
      seeming to beat, for one can hear nothing. The very Swiss at the
      Portcullis look weary of firing; disheartened in the fire-deluge:
      a porthole at the drawbridge is opened, as by one that would
      speak. See Huissier Maillard, the shifty man! On his plank,
      swinging over the abyss of that stone-Ditch; plank resting on
      parapet, balanced by weight of Patriots,—he hovers perilous: such
      a Dove towards such an Ark! Deftly, thou shifty Usher: one man
      already fell; and lies smashed, far down there, against the
      masonry! Usher Maillard falls not: deftly, unerring he walks,
      with outspread palm. The Swiss holds a paper through his
      porthole; the shifty Usher snatches it, and returns. Terms of
      surrender: Pardon, immunity to all! Are they accepted?—‘_Foi
      d’officier_, On the word of an officer,’ answers half-pay
      Hulin,—or half-pay Elie, for men do not agree on it, ‘they are!’
      Sinks the drawbridge,—Usher Maillard bolting it when down;
      rushes-in the living deluge: the Bastille is fallen! _Victoire!
      La Bastille est prise!_[186]


      Chapter 1.5.VII.
      Not a Revolt.

      Why dwell on what follows? Hulin’s _foi d’officier_ should have
      been kept, but could not. The Swiss stand drawn up; disguised in
      white canvas smocks; the Invalides without disguise; their arms
      all piled against the wall. The first rush of victors, in ecstacy
      that the death-peril is passed, “leaps joyfully on their necks;”
      but new victors rush, and ever new, also in ecstacy not wholly of
      joy. As we said, it was a living deluge, plunging headlong; had
      not the Gardes Françaises, in their cool military way, “wheeled
      round with arms levelled,” it would have plunged suicidally, by
      the hundred or the thousand, into the Bastille-ditch.

      And so it goes plunging through court and corridor; billowing
      uncontrollable, firing from windows—on itself: in hot frenzy of
      triumph, of grief and vengeance for its slain. The poor Invalides
      will fare ill; one Swiss, running off in his white smock, is
      driven back, with a death-thrust. Let all prisoners be marched to
      the Townhall, to be judged!—Alas, already one poor Invalide has
      his right hand slashed off him; his maimed body dragged to the
      Place de Grève, and hanged there. This same right hand, it is
      said, turned back de Launay from the Powder-Magazine, and saved
      Paris.

      De Launay, “discovered in gray frock with poppy-coloured riband,”
      is for killing himself with the sword of his cane. He shall to
      the Hôtel-de-Ville; Hulin Maillard and others escorting him; Elie
      marching foremost “with the capitulation-paper on his sword’s
      point.” Through roarings and cursings; through hustlings,
      clutchings, and at last through strokes! Your escort is hustled
      aside, felled down; Hulin sinks exhausted on a heap of stones.
      Miserable de Launay! He shall never enter the Hotel de Ville:
      only his “bloody hair-queue, held up in a bloody hand;” that
      shall enter, for a sign. The bleeding trunk lies on the steps
      there; the head is off through the streets; ghastly, aloft on a
      pike.

      Rigorous de Launay has died; crying out, ‘O friends, kill me
      fast!’ Merciful de Losme must die; though Gratitude embraces him,
      in this fearful hour, and will die for him; it avails not.
      Brothers, your wrath is cruel! Your Place de Grève is become a
      Throat of the Tiger; full of mere fierce bellowings, and thirst
      of blood. One other officer is massacred; one other Invalide is
      hanged on the Lamp-iron: with difficulty, with generous
      perseverance, the Gardes Françaises will save the rest. Provost
      Flesselles stricken long since with the paleness of death, must
      descend from his seat, “to be judged at the Palais Royal:”—alas,
      to be shot dead, by an unknown hand, at the turning of the first
      street!—

      O evening sun of July, how, at this hour, thy beams fall slant on
      reapers amid peaceful woody fields; on old women spinning in
      cottages; on ships far out in the silent main; on Balls at the
      Orangerie of Versailles, where high-rouged Dames of the Palace
      are even now dancing with double-jacketted Hussar-Officers;—and
      also on this roaring Hell porch of a Hôtel-de-Ville! Babel Tower,
      with the confusion of tongues, were not Bedlam added with the
      conflagration of thoughts, was no type of it. One forest of
      distracted steel bristles, endless, in front of an Electoral
      Committee; points itself, in horrid radii, against this and the
      other accused breast. It was the Titans warring with Olympus; and
      they scarcely crediting it, have _conquered:_ prodigy of
      prodigies; delirious,—as it could not but be. Denunciation,
      vengeance; blaze of triumph on a dark ground of terror: all
      outward, all inward things fallen into one general wreck of
      madness!

      Electoral Committee? Had it a thousand throats of brass, it would
      not suffice. Abbé Lefevre, in the Vaults down below, is black as
      Vulcan, distributing that “five thousand weight of Powder;” with
      what perils, these eight-and-forty hours! Last night, a Patriot,
      in liquor, insisted on sitting to smoke on the edge of one of the
      Powder-barrels; there smoked he, independent of the world,—till
      the Abbé “purchased his pipe for three francs,” and pitched it
      far.

      Elie, in the grand Hall, Electoral Committee looking on, sits
      “with drawn sword bent in three places;” with battered helm, for
      he was of the Queen’s Regiment, Cavalry; with torn regimentals,
      face singed and soiled; comparable, some think, to “an antique
      warrior;”—judging the people; forming a list of Bastille Heroes.
      O Friends, stain not with blood the greenest laurels ever gained
      in this world: such is the burden of Elie’s song; could it but be
      listened to. Courage, Elie! Courage, ye Municipal Electors! A
      declining sun; the need of victuals, and of telling news, will
      bring assuagement, dispersion: all earthly things must end.

      Along the streets of Paris circulate Seven Bastille Prisoners,
      borne shoulder-high: seven Heads on pikes; the Keys of the
      Bastille; and much else. See also the Garde Françaises, in their
      steadfast military way, marching home to their barracks, with the
      Invalides and Swiss kindly enclosed in hollow square. It is one
      year and two months since these same men stood unparticipating,
      with Brennus d’Agoust at the Palais de Justice, when Fate
      overtook d’Espréménil; and now they have participated; and will
      participate. Not Gardes Françaises henceforth, but _Centre
      Grenadiers of the National Guard:_ men of iron discipline and
      humour,—not without a kind of thought in them!

      Likewise ashlar stones of the Bastille continue thundering
      through the dusk; its paper-archives shall fly white. Old secrets
      come to view; and long-buried Despair finds voice. Read this
      portion of an old Letter:[187] “If for my consolation Monseigneur
      would grant me for the sake of God and the Most Blessed Trinity,
      that I could have news of my dear wife; were it only her name on
      card to shew that she is alive! It were the greatest consolation
      I could receive; and I should for ever bless the greatness of
      Monseigneur.” Poor Prisoner, who namest thyself _Quéret Démery_,
      and hast no other history,—she is _dead_, that dear wife of
      thine, and thou art dead! ’Tis fifty years since thy breaking
      heart put this question; to be heard now first, and long heard,
      in the hearts of men.

      But so does the July twilight thicken; so must Paris, as sick
      children, and all distracted creatures do, brawl itself finally
      into a kind of sleep. Municipal Electors, astonished to find
      their heads still uppermost, are home: only Moreau de Saint-Méry
      of tropical birth and heart, of coolest judgment; he, with two
      others, shall sit permanent at the Townhall. Paris sleeps; gleams
      upward the illuminated City: patrols go clashing, without common
      watchword; there go rumours; alarms of war, to the extent of
      “fifteen thousand men marching through the Suburb
      Saint-Antoine,”—who never got it marched through. Of the day’s
      distraction judge by this of the night: Moreau de Saint-Méry,
      “before rising from his seat, gave upwards of three thousand
      orders.”[188] What a head; comparable to Friar Bacon’s Brass
      Head! Within it lies all Paris. Prompt must the answer be, right
      or wrong; in Paris is no other Authority extant. Seriously, a
      most cool clear head;—for which also thou O brave Saint-Méry, in
      many capacities, from august Senator to Merchant’s-Clerk,
      Book-dealer, Vice-King; in many places, from Virginia to
      Sardinia, shalt, ever as a brave man, find employment.[189]

      Besenval has decamped, under cloud of dusk, “amid a great
      affluence of people,” who did not harm him; he marches, with
      faint-growing tread, down the left bank of the Seine, all
      night,—towards infinite space. Resummoned shall Besenval himself
      be; for trial, for difficult acquittal. His King’s-troops, his
      Royal Allemand, are gone hence for ever.

      The Versailles Ball and lemonade is done; the Orangery is silent
      except for nightbirds. Over in the Salle des Menus,
      Vice-president Lafayette, with unsnuffed lights, “with some
      hundred of members, stretched on tables round him,” sits erect;
      outwatching the Bear. This day, a second solemn Deputation went
      to his Majesty; a second, and then a third: with no effect. What
      will the end of these things be?

      In the Court, all is mystery, not without whisperings of terror;
      though ye dream of lemonade and epaulettes, ye foolish women! His
      Majesty, kept in happy ignorance, perhaps dreams of
      double-barrels and the Woods of Meudon. Late at night, the Duke
      de Liancourt, having official right of entrance, gains access to
      the Royal Apartments; unfolds, with earnest clearness, in his
      constitutional way, the Job’s-news. ‘_Mais_,’ said poor Louis,
      ‘_c’est une révolte_, Why, that is a revolt!’—‘Sire,’ answered
      Liancourt, ‘It is not a revolt, it is a revolution.’


      Chapter 1.5.VIII.
      Conquering your King.

      On the morrow a fourth Deputation to the Château is on foot: of a
      more solemn, not to say awful character, for, besides “orgies in
      the Orangery,” it seems, “the grain convoys are all stopped;” nor
      has Mirabeau’s thunder been silent. Such Deputation is on the
      point of setting out—when lo, his Majesty himself attended only
      by his two Brothers, step in; quite in the paternal manner;
      announces that the troops, and all causes of offence, are gone,
      and henceforth there shall be nothing but trust, reconcilement,
      good-will; whereof he “permits and even requests,” a National
      Assembly to assure Paris in his name! Acclamation, as of men
      suddenly delivered from death, gives answer. The whole Assembly
      spontaneously rises to escort his Majesty back; “interlacing
      their arms to keep off the excessive pressure from him;” for all
      Versailles is crowding and shouting. The Château Musicians, with
      a felicitous promptitude, strike up the _Sein de sa Famille_
      (Bosom of one’s Family): the Queen appears at the balcony with
      her little boy and girl, “kissing them several times;” infinite
      _Vivats_ spread far and wide;—and suddenly there has come, as it
      were, a new Heaven-on-Earth.

      Eighty-eight august Senators, Bailly, Lafayette, and our
      repentant Archbishop among them, take coach for Paris, with the
      great intelligence; benedictions without end on their heads. From
      the Place Louis Quinze, where they alight, all the way to the
      Hôtel-de-Ville, it is one sea of Tricolor cockades, of clear
      National muskets; one tempest of huzzaings, hand-clappings, aided
      by “occasional rollings” of drum-music. Harangues of due fervour
      are delivered; especially by Lally Tollendal, pious son of the
      ill-fated murdered Lally; on whose head, in consequence, a civic
      crown (of oak or parsley) is forced,—which he forcibly transfers
      to Bailly’s.

      But surely, for one thing, the National Guard must have a
      General! Moreau de Saint-Méry, he of the “three thousand orders,”
      casts one of his significant glances on the Bust of Lafayette,
      which has stood there ever since the American War of Liberty.
      Whereupon, by acclamation, Lafayette is nominated. Again, in room
      of the slain traitor or quasi-traitor Flesselles, President
      Bailly shall be—Provost of the Merchants? No: Mayor of Paris! So
      be it. _Maire de Paris!_ Mayor Bailly, General Lafayette; _vive
      Bailly, vive Lafayette_—the universal out-of-doors multitude
      rends the welkin in confirmation.—And now, finally, let us to
      Notre-Dame for a _Te Deum._

      Towards Notre-Dame Cathedral, in glad procession, these
      Regenerators of the Country walk, through a jubilant people; in
      fraternal manner; Abbé Lefevre, still black with his gunpowder
      services, walking arm in arm with the white-stoled Archbishop.
      Poor Bailly comes upon the Foundling Children, sent to kneel to
      him; and “weeps.” _Te Deum_, our Archbishop officiating, is not
      only sung, but _shot_—with blank cartridges. Our joy is boundless
      as our wo threatened to be. Paris, by her own pike and musket,
      and the valour of her own heart, has conquered the very
      wargods,—to the satisfaction now of Majesty itself. A courier is,
      this night, getting under way for Necker: the People’s Minister,
      invited back by King, by National Assembly, and Nation, shall
      traverse France amid shoutings, and the sound of trumpet and
      timbrel.

      Seeing which course of things, Messeigneurs of the Court
      Triumvirate, Messieurs of the dead-born Broglie-Ministry, and
      others such, consider that their part also is clear: to mount and
      ride. Off, ye too-loyal Broglies, Polignacs, and Princes of the
      Blood; off while it is yet time! Did not the Palais-Royal in its
      late nocturnal “violent motions,” set a specific price (place of
      payment not mentioned) on each of your heads?—With precautions,
      with the aid of pieces of cannon and regiments that can be
      depended on, Messeigneurs, between the 16th night and the 17th
      morning, get to their several roads. Not without risk! Prince
      Condé has (or seems to have) “men galloping at full speed;” with
      a view, it is thought, to fling him into the river Oise, at
      Pont-Sainte-Mayence.[190] The Polignacs travel disguised;
      friends, not servants, on their coach-box. Broglie has his own
      difficulties at Versailles, runs his own risks at Metz and
      Verdun; does nevertheless get safe to Luxemburg, and there rests.

      This is what they call the First Emigration; determined on, as
      appears, in full Court-conclave; his Majesty assisting; prompt
      he, for his share of it, to follow any counsel whatsoever. “Three
      Sons of France, and four Princes of the blood of Saint Louis,”
      says Weber, “could not more effectually humble the Burghers of
      Paris than by appearing to withdraw in fear of their life.” Alas,
      the Burghers of Paris bear it with unexpected Stoicism! The Man
      d’Artois indeed is gone; but has he carried, for example, the
      Land D’Artois with him? Not even Bagatelle the Country-house
      (which shall be useful as a Tavern); hardly the four-valet
      Breeches, leaving the Breeches-maker!—As for old Foulon, one
      learns that he is dead; at least a “sumptuous funeral” is going
      on; the undertakers honouring him, if no other will. Intendant
      Berthier, his son-in-law, is still living; lurking: he joined
      Besenval, on that Eumenides’ Sunday; appearing to treat it with
      levity; and is now fled no man knows whither.

      The Emigration is not gone many miles, Prince Condé hardly across
      the Oise, when his Majesty, according to arrangement, for the
      Emigration also thought it might do good,—undertakes a rather
      daring enterprise: that of visiting Paris in person. With a
      Hundred Members of Assembly; with small or no military escort,
      which indeed he dismissed at the Bridge of Sèvres, poor Louis
      sets out; leaving a desolate Palace; a Queen weeping, the
      Present, the Past, and the Future all so unfriendly for her.

      At the Barrier of Passy, Mayor Bailly, in grand gala, presents
      him with the keys; harangues him, in Academic style; mentions
      that it is a great day; that in Henri Quatre’s case, the King had
      to make conquest of his People, but in this happier case, the
      People makes conquest of its King (_a conquis son Roi_). The
      King, so happily conquered, drives forward, slowly, through a
      steel people, all silent, or shouting only _Vive la Nation;_ is
      harangued at the Townhall, by Moreau of the three-thousand
      orders, by King’s Procureur M. Ethys de Corny, by Lally
      Tollendal, and others; knows not what to think of it, or say of
      it; learns that he is “Restorer of French Liberty,”—as a Statue
      of him, to be raised on the site of the Bastille, shall testify
      to all men. Finally, he is shewn at the Balcony, with a Tricolor
      cockade in his hat; is greeted now, with vehement acclamation,
      from Square and Street, from all windows and roofs:—and so drives
      home again amid glad mingled and, as it were, intermarried
      shouts, of _Vive le Roi_ and _Vive la Nation;_ wearied but safe.

      It was Sunday when the red-hot balls hung over us, in mid air: it
      is now but Friday, and “the Revolution is sanctioned.” An August
      National Assembly shall make the Constitution; and neither
      foreign Pandour, domestic Triumvirate, with levelled Cannon,
      Guy-Faux powder-plots (for that too was spoken of); nor any
      tyrannic Power on the Earth, or under the Earth, shall say to it,
      What dost thou?—So jubilates the people; sure now of a
      Constitution. Cracked Marquis Saint-Huruge is heard under the
      windows of the Château; murmuring sheer speculative-treason.[191]


      Chapter 1.5.IX.
      The Lanterne.

      The Fall of the Bastille may be said to have shaken all France to
      the deepest foundations of its existence. The rumour of these
      wonders flies every where: with the natural speed of Rumour; with
      an effect thought to be preternatural, produced by plots. Did
      d’Orléans or Laclos, nay did Mirabeau (not overburdened with
      money at this time) send riding Couriers out from Paris; to
      gallop “on all radii,” or highways, towards all points of France?
      It is a miracle, which no penetrating man will call in
      question.[192]

      Already in most Towns, Electoral Committees were met; to regret
      Necker, in harangue and resolution. In many a Town, as Rennes,
      Caen, Lyons, an ebullient people was already regretting him in
      brickbats and musketry. But now, at every Town’s-end in France,
      there do arrive, in these days of terror,—“men,” as men will
      arrive; nay, “men on horseback,” since Rumour oftenest travels
      riding. These men declare, with alarmed countenance, _The_
      BRIGANDS to be coming, to be just at hand; and do then—ride on,
      about their further business, be what it might! Whereupon the
      whole population of such Town, defensively flies to arms.
      Petition is soon thereafter forwarded to National Assembly; in
      such peril and terror of peril, leave to organise yourself cannot
      be withheld: the armed population becomes everywhere an enrolled
      National Guard. Thus rides Rumour, careering along all radii,
      from Paris outwards, to such purpose: in few days, some say in
      not many hours, all France to the utmost borders bristles with
      bayonets. Singular, but undeniable,—miraculous or not!—But thus
      may any chemical liquid; though cooled to the freezing-point, or
      far lower, still continue liquid; and then, on the slightest
      stroke or shake, it at once rushes wholly into ice. Thus has
      France, for long months and even years, been chemically dealt
      with; brought below zero; and now, shaken by the Fall of a
      Bastille, it instantaneously congeals: into one crystallised
      mass, of sharp-cutting steel! _Guai a chi la tocca;_ ’Ware who
      touches it!

      In Paris, an Electoral Committee, with a new Mayor and General,
      is urgent with belligerent workmen to resume their handicrafts.
      Strong Dames of the Market (_Dames de la Halle_) deliver
      congratulatory harangues; present “bouquets to the Shrine of
      Sainte Genevieve.” Unenrolled men deposit their arms,—not so
      readily as could be wished; and receive “nine francs.” With _Te
      Deums_, Royal Visits, and sanctioned Revolution, there is halcyon
      weather; weather even of preternatural brightness; the hurricane
      being overblown.

      Nevertheless, as is natural, the waves still run high, hollow
      rocks retaining their murmur. We are but at the 22nd of the
      month, hardly above a week since the Bastille fell, when it
      suddenly appears that old Foulon is alive; nay, that he is here,
      in early morning, in the streets of Paris; the extortioner, the
      plotter, who would make the people eat grass, and was a liar from
      the beginning!—It is even so. The deceptive “sumptuous funeral”
      (of some domestic that died); the hiding-place at Vitry towards
      Fontainbleau, have not availed that wretched old man. Some living
      domestic or dependant, for none loves Foulon, has betrayed him to
      the Village. Merciless boors of Vitry unearth him; pounce on him,
      like hell-hounds: Westward, old Infamy; to Paris, to be judged at
      the Hôtel-de-Ville! His old head, which seventy-four years have
      bleached, is bare; they have tied an emblematic bundle of grass
      on his back; a garland of nettles and thistles is round his neck:
      in this manner; led with ropes; goaded on with curses and
      menaces, must he, with his old limbs, sprawl forward; the
      pitiablest, most unpitied of all old men.

      Sooty Saint-Antoine, and every street, mustering its crowds as he
      passes,—the Place de Grève, the Hall of the Hôtel-de-Ville will
      scarcely hold his escort and him. Foulon must not only be judged
      righteously; but judged there where he stands, without any delay.
      Appoint seven judges, ye Municipals, or seventy-and-seven; name
      them yourselves, or we will name them: but judge him![193]
      Electoral rhetoric, eloquence of Mayor Bailly, is wasted
      explaining the beauty of the Law’s delay. Delay, and still delay!
      Behold, O Mayor of the People, the morning has worn itself into
      noon; and he is still unjudged!—Lafayette, pressingly sent for,
      arrives; gives voice: This Foulon, a known man, is guilty almost
      beyond doubt; but may he not have accomplices? Ought not the
      truth to be cunningly pumped out of him,—in the Abbaye Prison? It
      is a new light! Sansculottism claps hands;—at which
      hand-clapping, Foulon (in his fainness, as his Destiny would have
      it) also claps. ‘See! they understand one another!’ cries dark
      Sansculottism, blazing into fury of suspicion.—‘Friends,’ said “a
      person in good clothes,” stepping forward, ‘what is the use of
      judging this man? Has he not been judged these thirty years?’
      With wild yells, Sansculottism clutches him, in its hundred
      hands: he is whirled across the Place de Grève, to the
      “_Lanterne_,” Lamp-iron which there is at the corner of the _Rue
      de la Vannerie;_ pleading bitterly for life,—to the deaf winds.
      Only with the third rope (for two ropes broke, and the quavering
      voice still pleaded), can he be so much as got hanged! His Body
      is dragged through the streets; his Head goes aloft on a pike,
      the mouth filled with grass: amid sounds as of Tophet, from a
      grass-eating people.[194]

      Surely if Revenge is a “kind of Justice,” it is a “wild” kind! O
      mad Sansculottism hast thou risen, in thy mad darkness, in thy
      soot and rags; unexpectedly, like an Enceladus, living-buried,
      from under his Trinacria? They that would make grass be eaten do
      now eat grass, in _this_ manner? After long dumb-groaning
      generations, has the turn suddenly become thine?—To such abysmal
      overturns, and frightful instantaneous inversions of the
      centre-of-gravity, are human Solecisms all liable, if they but
      knew it; the more liable, the falser (and topheavier) they are!—

      To add to the horror of Mayor Bailly and his Municipals, word
      comes that Berthier has also been arrested; that he is on his way
      hither from Compiègne. Berthier, Intendant (say, _Tax-levier_) of
      Paris; sycophant and tyrant; forestaller of Corn; contriver of
      Camps against the people;—accused of many things: is he not
      Foulon’s son-in-law; and, in that one point, guilty of all? In
      these hours too, when Sansculottism has its blood up! The
      shuddering Municipals send one of their number to escort him,
      with mounted National Guards.

      At the fall of day, the wretched Berthier, still wearing a face
      of courage, arrives at the Barrier; in an open carriage; with the
      Municipal beside him; five hundred horsemen with drawn sabres;
      unarmed footmen enough, not without noise! Placards go brandished
      round him; bearing legibly his indictment, as Sansculottism, with
      unlegal brevity, “in huge letters,” draws it up.[195] Paris is
      come forth to meet him: with hand-clappings, with windows flung
      up; with dances, triumph-songs, as of the Furies! Lastly the Head
      of Foulon: this also meets him on a pike. Well might his “look
      become glazed,” and sense fail him, at such sight!—Nevertheless,
      be the man’s conscience what it may, his nerves are of iron. At
      the Hôtel-de-Ville, he will answer nothing. He says, he obeyed
      superior order; they have his papers; they may judge and
      determine: as for himself, not having closed an eye these two
      nights, he demands, before all things, to have sleep. Leaden
      sleep, thou miserable Berthier! Guards rise with him, in motion
      towards the Abbaye. At the very door of the Hôtel-de-Ville, they
      are clutched; flung asunder, as by a vortex of mad arms; Berthier
      whirls towards the Lanterne. He snatches a musket; fells and
      strikes, defending himself like a mad lion; is borne down,
      trampled, hanged, mangled: his Head too, and even his Heart,
      flies over the City on a pike.

      Horrible, in Lands that had known equal justice! Not so unnatural
      in Lands that had never known it. _Le sang qui coule est-il donc
      si pure?_ asks Barnave; intimating that the Gallows, though by
      irregular methods, has its own.—Thou thyself, O Reader, when thou
      turnest that corner of the Rue de la Vannerie, and discernest
      still that same grim Bracket of old Iron, wilt not want for
      reflections. “Over a grocer’s shop,” or otherwise; with “a bust
      of Louis XIV. in the niche under it,” or now no longer in the
      niche,—_it_ still sticks there: still holding out an ineffectual
      light, of fish-oil; and has seen worlds wrecked, and says
      nothing.

      But to the eye of enlightened Patriotism, what a thunder-cloud
      was this; suddenly shaping itself in the radiance of the halcyon
      weather! Cloud of Erebus blackness: betokening latent electricity
      without limit. Mayor Bailly, General Lafayette throw up their
      commissions, in an indignant manner;—need to be flattered back
      again. The cloud disappears, as thunder-clouds do. The halcyon
      weather returns, though of a grayer complexion; of a character
      more and more evidently _not_ supernatural.

      Thus, in any case, with what rubs soever, shall the Bastille be
      abolished from our Earth; and with it, Feudalism, Despotism; and,
      one hopes, Scoundrelism generally, and all hard usage of man by
      his brother man. Alas, the Scoundrelism and hard usage are not so
      easy of abolition! But as for the Bastille, it sinks day after
      day, and month after month; its ashlars and boulders tumbling
      down continually, by express order of our Municipals. Crowds of
      the curious roam through its caverns; gaze on the skeletons found
      walled up, on the _oubliettes_, iron cages, monstrous
      stone-blocks with padlock chains. One day we discern Mirabeau
      there; along with the Genevese Dumont.[196] Workers and onlookers
      make reverent way for him; fling verses, flowers on his path,
      Bastille-papers and curiosities into his carriage, with _vivats._

      Able Editors compile Books from the _Bastille Archives;_ from
      what of them remain unburnt. The Key of that Robber-Den shall
      cross the Atlantic; shall lie on Washington’s hall-table. The
      great Clock ticks now in a private patriotic Clockmaker’s
      apartment; no longer measuring hours of mere heaviness. Vanished
      is the Bastille, what we call vanished: the _body_, or
      sandstones, of it hanging, in benign metamorphosis, for centuries
      to come, over the Seine waters, as _Pont Louis Seize_;[197] the
      soul of it living, perhaps still longer, in the memories of men.

      So far, ye august Senators, with your Tennis-Court Oaths, your
      inertia and impetus, your sagacity and pertinacity, have ye
      brought us. ‘And yet think, Messieurs,’ as the Petitioner justly
      urged, ‘you who were our saviours, did yourselves need
      saviours,’—the brave Bastillers, namely; workmen of Paris; many
      of them in straightened pecuniary circumstances! [198]
      Subscriptions are opened; Lists are formed, more accurate than
      Elie’s; harangues are delivered. A Body of _Bastille Heroes_,
      tolerably complete, did get together;—comparable to the
      Argonauts; hoping to endure like them. But in little more than a
      year, the whirlpool of things threw them asunder again, and they
      sank. So many highest superlatives achieved by man are followed
      by new higher; and dwindle into comparatives and positives! The
      Siege of the Bastille, weighed with which, in the Historical
      balance, most other sieges, including that of Troy Town, are
      gossamer, cost, as we find, in killed and mortally wounded, on
      the part of the Besiegers, some Eighty-three persons: on the part
      of the Besieged, after all that straw-burning, fire-pumping, and
      deluge of musketry, One poor solitary invalid, shot stone-dead
      (_roide-mort_) on the battlements;[199] The Bastille Fortress,
      like the City of Jericho, was overturned by miraculous _sound._


      BOOK VI.
      CONSOLIDATION


      Chapter 1.6.I.
      Make the Constitution.

      Here perhaps is the place to fix, a little more precisely, what
      these two words, _French Revolution_, shall mean; for, strictly
      considered, they may have as many meanings as there are speakers
      of them. All things are in revolution; in change from moment to
      moment, which becomes sensible from epoch to epoch: in this
      Time-World of ours there is properly nothing else but revolution
      and mutation, and even nothing else conceivable. Revolution, you
      answer, means _speedier_ change. Whereupon one has still to ask:
      How speedy? At what degree of speed; in what particular points of
      this variable course, which varies in velocity, but can never
      stop till Time itself stops, does revolution begin and end; cease
      to be ordinary mutation, and again become such? It is a thing
      that will depend on definition more or less arbitrary.

      For ourselves we answer that French Revolution means here the
      open violent Rebellion, and Victory, of disimprisoned Anarchy
      against corrupt worn-out Authority: how Anarchy breaks prison;
      bursts up from the infinite Deep, and rages uncontrollable,
      immeasurable, enveloping a world; in phasis after phasis of
      fever-frenzy;—till the frenzy burning itself out, and what
      elements of new Order it held (since all Force holds such)
      developing themselves, the Uncontrollable be got, if not
      reimprisoned, yet harnessed, and its mad forces made to work
      towards their object as sane regulated ones. For as Hierarchies
      and Dynasties of all kinds, Theocracies, Aristocracies,
      Autocracies, Strumpetocracies, have ruled over the world; so it
      was appointed, in the decrees of Providence, that this same
      Victorious Anarchy, Jacobinism, Sansculottism, French Revolution,
      Horrors of French Revolution, or what else mortals name it,
      should have its turn. The “destructive wrath” of Sansculottism:
      this is what we speak, having unhappily no voice for singing.

      Surely a great Phenomenon: nay it is a _transcendental_ one,
      overstepping all rules and experience; the crowning Phenomenon of
      our Modern Time. For here again, most unexpectedly, comes antique
      Fanaticism in new and newest vesture; miraculous, as all
      Fanaticism is. Call it the Fanaticism of “making away with
      formulas, _de humer les formules_.” The world of formulas, the
      _formed_ regulated world, which all habitable world is,—must
      needs hate such Fanaticism like death; and be at deadly variance
      with it. The world of formulas must conquer it; or failing that,
      must die execrating it, anathematising it;—can nevertheless in
      nowise prevent its being and its having been. The Anathemas are
      there, and the miraculous Thing is there.

      Whence it cometh? Whither it goeth? These are questions! When the
      age of Miracles lay faded into the distance as an incredible
      tradition, and even the age of Conventionalities was now old; and
      Man’s Existence had for long generations rested on mere formulas
      which were grown hollow by course of time; and it seemed as if no
      Reality any longer existed but only Phantasms of realities, and
      God’s Universe were the work of the Tailor and Upholsterer
      mainly, and men were buckram masks that went about becking and
      grimacing there,—on a sudden, the Earth yawns asunder, and amid
      Tartarean smoke, and glare of fierce brightness, rises
      SANSCULOTTISM, many-headed, fire-breathing, and asks: What think
      ye of _me?_ Well may the buckram masks start together,
      terror-struck; “into expressive well-concerted groups!” It is
      indeed, Friends, a most singular, most fatal thing. Let whosoever
      is but buckram and a phantasm look to it: ill verily may it fare
      with him; here methinks he cannot much longer be. Wo also to many
      a one who is not wholly buckram, but partially real and human!
      The age of Miracles has come back! “Behold the World-Phoenix, in
      fire-consummation and fire-creation; wide are her fanning wings;
      loud is her death-melody, of battle-thunders and falling towns;
      skyward lashes the funeral flame, enveloping all things: it is
      the Death-Birth of a World!”

      Whereby, however, as we often say, shall one unspeakable blessing
      seem attainable. This, namely: that Man and his Life rest no more
      on hollowness and a Lie, but on solidity and some kind of Truth.
      Welcome, the beggarliest truth, so it _be_ one, in exchange for
      the royallest sham! Truth of any kind breeds ever new and better
      truth; thus hard granite rock will crumble down into soil, under
      the blessed skyey influences; and cover itself with verdure, with
      fruitage and umbrage. But as for Falsehood, which in like
      contrary manner, grows ever falser,—what can it, or what should
      it do but decease, being ripe; decompose itself, gently or even
      violently, and return to the Father of it,—too probably in flames
      of fire?

      Sansculottism will burn much; but what is incombustible it will
      not burn. Fear not Sansculottism; recognise it for what it is,
      the portentous, inevitable end of much, the miraculous beginning
      of much. One other thing thou mayest understand of it: that it
      too came from God; for has it not _been?_ From of old, as it is
      written, are His goings forth; in the great Deep of things;
      fearful and wonderful now as in the beginning: in the whirlwind
      also He speaks! and the wrath of men is made to praise Him.—But
      to gauge and measure this immeasurable Thing, and what is called
      _account for it_, and reduce it to a dead logic-formula, attempt
      not! Much less shalt thou shriek thyself hoarse, cursing it; for
      that, to all needful lengths, has been already done. As an
      actually existing Son of Time, _look_, with unspeakable manifold
      interest, oftenest in silence, at what the Time did bring:
      therewith edify, instruct, nourish thyself, or were it but to
      amuse and gratify thyself, as it is given thee.

      Another question which at every new turn will rise on us,
      requiring ever new reply is this: Where the French Revolution
      specially _is?_ In the King’s Palace, in his Majesty’s or her
      Majesty’s managements, and maltreatments, cabals, imbecilities
      and woes, answer some few:—whom we do not answer. In the National
      Assembly, answer a large mixed multitude: who accordingly seat
      themselves in the Reporter’s Chair; and therefrom noting what
      Proclamations, Acts, Reports, passages of logic-fence, bursts of
      parliamentary eloquence seem notable within doors, and what
      tumults and rumours of tumult become audible from
      without,—produce volume on volume; and, naming it History of the
      French Revolution, contentedly publish the same. To do the like,
      to almost any extent, with so many Filed Newspapers, _Choix des
      Rapports, Histoires Parlementaires_ as there are, amounting to
      many horseloads, were easy for us. Easy but unprofitable. The
      National Assembly, named now Constituent Assembly, goes its
      course; making the Constitution; but the French Revolution also
      goes _its_ course.

      In general, may we not say that the French Revolution lies in the
      heart and head of every violent-speaking, of every
      violent-thinking French Man? How the Twenty-five Millions of
      such, in their perplexed combination, acting and counter-acting
      may give birth to events; which event successively is the
      cardinal one; and from what point of vision it may best be
      surveyed: this is a problem. Which problem the best insight,
      seeking light from all possible sources, shifting its point of
      vision whithersoever vision or glimpse of vision can be had, may
      employ itself in solving; and be well content to solve in some
      tolerably approximate way.

      As to the National Assembly, in so far as it still towers eminent
      over France, after the manner of a car-borne _Carroccio_, though
      now no longer in the van; and rings signals for retreat or for
      advance,—it is and continues a reality among other realities. But
      in so far as it sits making the Constitution, on the other hand,
      it is a fatuity and chimera mainly. Alas, in the never so heroic
      building of Montesquieu-Mably card-castles, though shouted over
      by the world, what interest is there? Occupied in that way, an
      august National Assembly becomes for us little other than a
      Sanhedrim of pedants, not of the gerund-grinding, yet of no
      fruitfuller sort; and its loud debatings and recriminations about
      Rights of Man, Right of Peace and War, _Veto suspensif, Veto
      absolu_, what are they but so many Pedant’s-curses, “May God
      confound you for your _Theory of Irregular Verbs!_”

      A Constitution can be built, Constitutions enough _à la Sieyes:_
      but the frightful difficulty is that of getting men to come and
      live in them! Could Sieyes have drawn thunder and lightning out
      of Heaven to sanction his Constitution, it had been well: but
      without any thunder? Nay, strictly considered, is it not still
      true that without some such celestial sanction, given visibly in
      thunder or invisibly otherwise, no Constitution can in the long
      run be worth much more than the waste-paper it is written on? The
      Constitution, the set of Laws, or prescribed Habits of Acting,
      that men will live under, is the one which images their
      Convictions,—their Faith as to this wondrous Universe, and what
      rights, duties, capabilities they have there; which stands
      sanctioned therefore, by Necessity itself, if not by a seen
      Deity, then by an unseen one. Other laws, whereof there are
      always enough _ready_-made, are usurpations; which men do not
      obey, but rebel against, and abolish, by their earliest
      convenience.

      The question of questions accordingly were, Who is it that
      especially for rebellers and abolishers, can make a Constitution?
      He that can image forth the general Belief when there is one;
      that can impart one when, as here, there is none. A most rare
      man; ever as of old a god-missioned man! Here, however, in defect
      of such transcendent supreme man, Time with its infinite
      succession of merely superior men, each yielding his little
      contribution, does much. Force likewise (for, as Antiquarian
      Philosophers teach, the royal Sceptre was from the first
      something of a Hammer, to _crack_ such heads as could not be
      convinced) will all along find somewhat to do. And thus in
      perpetual abolition and reparation, rending and mending, with
      struggle and strife, with present evil and the hope and effort
      towards future good, must the Constitution, as all human things
      do, build itself forward; or unbuild itself, and sink, as it can
      and may. O Sieyes, and ye other Committeemen, and Twelve Hundred
      miscellaneous individuals from all parts of France! What is the
      Belief of France, and yours, if ye knew it? Properly that there
      shall be no Belief; that all formulas be swallowed. The
      Constitution which will suit that? Alas, too clearly, a
      No-Constitution, an Anarchy;—which also, in due season, shall be
      vouchsafed you.

      But, after all, what can an unfortunate National Assembly do?
      Consider only this, that there are Twelve Hundred miscellaneous
      individuals; not a unit of whom but has his own
      thinking-apparatus, his own speaking-apparatus! In every unit of
      them is some belief and wish, different for each, both that
      France should be regenerated, and also that he individually
      should do it. Twelve Hundred separate Forces, yoked
      miscellaneously to any object, miscellaneously to all sides of
      it; and bid pull for life!

      Or is it the nature of National Assemblies generally to do, with
      endless labour and clangour, Nothing? Are Representative
      Governments mostly at bottom Tyrannies too! Shall we say, the
      _Tyrants_, the ambitious contentious Persons, from all corners of
      the country do, in this manner, get gathered into one place; and
      there, with motion and counter-motion, with jargon and hubbub,
      _cancel_ one another, like the fabulous Kilkenny Cats; and
      produce, for net-result, _zero;_—the country meanwhile
      _governing_ or guiding _itself_, by such wisdom, recognised or
      for most part unrecognised, as may exist in individual heads here
      and there?—Nay, even that were a great improvement: for, of old,
      with their Guelf Factions and Ghibelline Factions, with their Red
      Roses and White Roses, they were wont to cancel the whole country
      as well. Besides they do it now in a much narrower cockpit;
      within the four walls of their Assembly House, and here and there
      an outpost of Hustings and Barrel-heads; do it with tongues too,
      not with swords:—all which improvements, in the art of producing
      zero, are they not great? Nay, best of all, some happy Continents
      (as the Western one, with its Savannahs, where whosoever has four
      willing limbs finds food under his feet, and an infinite sky over
      his head) can do without governing.—What Sphinx-questions; which
      the distracted world, in these very generations, must answer or
      die!


      Chapter 1.6.II.
      The Constituent Assembly.

      One thing an elected Assembly of Twelve Hundred is fit for:
      Destroying. Which indeed is but a more decided exercise of its
      natural talent for Doing Nothing. Do nothing, only keep
      agitating, debating; and things will destroy themselves.

      So and not otherwise proved it with an august National Assembly.
      It took the name, Constituent, as if its mission and function had
      been to construct or build; which also, with its whole soul, it
      endeavoured to do: yet, in the fates, in the nature of things,
      there lay for it precisely of all functions the most opposite to
      that. Singular, what Gospels men will believe; even Gospels
      according to Jean Jacques! It was the fixed Faith of these
      National Deputies, as of all thinking Frenchmen, that the
      Constitution could be _made;_ that they, there and then, were
      called to make it. How, with the toughness of Old Hebrews or
      Ishmaelite Moslem, did the otherwise light unbelieving People
      persist in this their _Credo quia impossibile;_ and front the
      armed world with it; and grow fanatic, and even heroic, and do
      exploits by it! The Constituent Assembly’s Constitution, and
      several others, will, being printed and not manuscript, survive
      to future generations, as an instructive well-nigh incredible
      document of the Time: the most significant Picture of the then
      existing France; or at lowest, Picture of these men’s Picture of
      it.

      But in truth and seriousness, what could the National Assembly
      have done? The thing to _be_ done was, actually as they said, to
      regenerate France; to abolish the old France, and make a new one;
      quietly or forcibly, by concession or by violence, this, by the
      Law of Nature, has become inevitable. With what degree of
      violence, depends on the wisdom of those that preside over it.
      With perfect wisdom on the part of the National Assembly, it had
      all been otherwise; but whether, in any wise, it could have been
      pacific, nay other than bloody and convulsive, may still be a
      question.

      Grant, meanwhile, that this Constituent Assembly does to the last
      continue to be something. With a sigh, it sees itself incessantly
      forced away from its infinite divine task, of perfecting “the
      Theory of Irregular Verbs,”—to finite terrestrial tasks, which
      latter have still a significance for us. It is the cynosure of
      revolutionary France, this National Assembly. All work of
      Government has fallen into its hands, or under its control; all
      men look to it for guidance. In the middle of that huge Revolt of
      Twenty-five millions, it hovers always aloft as _Carroccio_ or
      Battle-Standard, impelling and impelled, in the most confused
      way; if it cannot give much guidance, it will still seem to give
      some. It emits pacificatory Proclamations, not a few; with more
      or with less result. It authorises the enrolment of National
      Guards,—lest Brigands come to devour us, and reap the unripe
      crops. It sends missions to quell “effervescences;” to deliver
      men from the Lanterne. It can listen to congratulatory Addresses,
      which arrive daily by the sackful; mostly in King Cambyses’ vein:
      also to Petitions and complaints from all mortals; so that every
      mortal’s complaint, if it cannot get redressed, may at least hear
      itself complain. For the rest, an august National Assembly can
      produce Parliamentary Eloquence; and appoint Committees.
      Committees of the Constitution, of Reports, of Researches; and of
      much else: which again yield mountains of Printed Paper; the
      theme of new Parliamentary Eloquence, in bursts, or in plenteous
      smooth-flowing floods. And so, from the waste vortex whereon all
      things go whirling and grinding, Organic Laws, or the similitude
      of such, slowly emerge.

      With endless debating, we get the _Rights of Man_ written down
      and promulgated: true paper basis of all paper Constitutions.
      Neglecting, cry the opponents, to declare the Duties of Man!
      Forgetting, answer we, to ascertain the _Mights_ of Man;—one of
      the fatalest omissions!—Nay, sometimes, as on the Fourth of
      August, our National Assembly, fired suddenly by an almost
      preternatural enthusiasm, will get through whole masses of work
      in one night. A memorable night, this Fourth of August:
      Dignitaries temporal and spiritual; Peers, Archbishops,
      Parlement-Presidents, each outdoing the other in patriotic
      devotedness, come successively to throw their (untenable)
      possessions on the “altar of the fatherland.” With louder and
      louder vivats, for indeed it is “after dinner” too,—they abolish
      Tithes, Seignorial Dues, Gabelle, excessive Preservation of Game;
      nay Privilege, Immunity, Feudalism root and branch; then appoint
      a _Te Deum_ for it; and so, finally, disperse about three in the
      morning, striking the stars with their sublime heads. Such night,
      unforeseen but for ever memorable, was this of the Fourth of
      August 1789. Miraculous, or semi-miraculous, some seem to think
      it. A new Night of Pentecost, shall we say, shaped according to
      the new Time, and new Church of Jean Jacques Rousseau? It had its
      causes; also its effects.

      In such manner labour the National Deputies; perfecting their
      Theory of Irregular Verbs; governing France, and being governed
      by it; with toil and noise;—cutting asunder ancient intolerable
      bonds; and, for new ones, assiduously spinning ropes of sand.
      Were their labours a nothing or a something, yet the eyes of all
      France being reverently fixed on them, History can never very
      long leave them altogether out of sight.

      For the present, if we glance into that Assembly Hall of theirs,
      it will be found, as is natural, “most irregular.” As many as “a
      hundred members are on their feet at once;” no rule in making
      motions, or only commencements of a rule; Spectators’ Gallery
      allowed to applaud, and even to hiss;[200] President, appointed
      once a fortnight, raising many times no serene head above the
      waves. Nevertheless, as in all human Assemblages, like does begin
      arranging itself to like; the perennial rule, _Ubi homines sunt
      modi sunt_, proves valid. Rudiments of Methods disclose
      themselves; rudiments of Parties. There is a Right Side (_Côté
      Droit_), a Left Side (_Côté Gauche_); sitting on M. le
      President’s right hand, or on his left: the _Côté Droit_
      conservative; the _Côté Gauche_ destructive. Intermediate is
      Anglomaniac Constitutionalism, or Two-Chamber Royalism; with its
      Mouniers, its Lallys,—fast verging towards nonentity. Preeminent,
      on the Right Side, pleads and perorates Cazalès, the
      Dragoon-captain, eloquent, mildly fervent; earning for himself
      the shadow of a name. There also blusters Barrel-Mirabeau, the
      Younger Mirabeau, not without wit: dusky d’Espréménil does
      nothing but sniff and ejaculate; _might_, it is fondly thought,
      lay prostrate the Elder Mirabeau himself, would he but
      try,[201]—which he does not. Last and greatest, see, for one
      moment, the Abbé Maury; with his jesuitic eyes, his impassive
      brass face, “image of all the cardinal sins.” Indomitable,
      unquenchable, he fights jesuitico-rhetorically; with toughest
      lungs and heart; for Throne, especially for Altar and Tithes. So
      that a shrill voice exclaims once, from the Gallery: ‘Messieurs
      of the Clergy, you _have_ to be shaved; if you wriggle too much,
      you will get cut.’[202]

      The Left side is also called the d’Orléans side; and sometimes
      derisively, the Palais Royal. And yet, so confused,
      real-imaginary seems everything, “it is doubtful,” as Mirabeau
      said, “whether d’Orléans himself belong to that same d’Orléans
      Party.” What can be known and seen is, that his moon-visage does
      beam forth from that point of space. There likewise sits seagreen
      Robespierre; throwing in his light weight, with decision, not yet
      with effect. A thin lean Puritan and Precisian; he would make
      away with formulas; yet lives, moves, and has his being, wholly
      in formulas, of another sort. “_Peuple_,” such according to
      Robespierre ought to be the Royal method of promulgating laws,
      “_Peuple_, this is the Law I have framed for thee; dost thou
      accept it?”—answered from Right Side, from Centre and Left, by
      inextinguishable laughter.[203] Yet men of insight discern that
      the Seagreen may by chance go far: ‘this man,’ observes Mirabeau,
      ‘will do somewhat; he believes every word he says.’

      Abbé Sieyes is busy with mere Constitutional work: wherein,
      unluckily, fellow-workmen are less pliable than, with one who has
      completed the Science of Polity, they ought to be. Courage,
      Sieyes nevertheless! Some twenty months of heroic travail, of
      contradiction from the stupid, and the Constitution shall be
      built; the top-stone of it brought out with shouting,—say rather,
      the top-paper, for it is all Paper; and _thou_ hast done in it
      what the Earth or the Heaven could require, thy utmost. Note
      likewise this Trio; memorable for several things; memorable were
      it only that their history is written in an epigram: “whatsoever
      these Three have in hand,” it is said, “Duport thinks it, Barnave
      speaks it, Lameth does it.”[204]

      But royal Mirabeau? Conspicuous among all parties, raised above
      and beyond them all, this man rises more and more. As we often
      say, he has an _eye_, he is a reality; while others are formulas
      and _eye_-glasses. In the Transient he will detect the Perennial,
      find some firm footing even among Paper-vortexes. His fame is
      gone forth to all lands; it gladdened the heart of the crabbed
      old Friend of Men himself before he died. The very Postilions of
      inns have heard of Mirabeau: when an impatient Traveller
      complains that the team is insufficient, his Postilion answers,
      ‘Yes, Monsieur, the wheelers are weak; but my _mirabeau_ (main
      horse), you see, is a right one, _mais mon mirabeau est
      excellent_.’[205]

      And now, Reader, thou shalt quit this noisy Discrepancy of a
      National Assembly; not (if thou be of humane mind) without pity.
      Twelve Hundred brother men are there, in the centre of
      Twenty-five Millions; fighting so fiercely with Fate and with one
      another; struggling their lives out, as most sons of Adam do, for
      that which profiteth not. Nay, on the whole, it is admitted
      further to be very _dull_. ‘Dull as this day’s Assembly,’ said
      some one. ‘Why date, _Pourquoi dater?_’ answered Mirabeau.

      Consider that they are Twelve Hundred; that they not only speak,
      but _read_ their speeches; and even borrow and steal speeches to
      read! With Twelve Hundred fluent speakers, and their Noah’s
      Deluge of vociferous commonplace, unattainable silence may well
      seem the one blessing of Life. But figure Twelve Hundred
      pamphleteers; droning forth perpetual pamphlets: and no man to
      gag them! Neither, as in the American Congress, do the
      arrangements seem perfect. A Senator has not his own Desk and
      Newspaper here; of Tobacco (much less of Pipes) there is not the
      slightest provision. Conversation itself must be transacted in a
      low tone, with continual interruption: only “pencil Notes”
      circulate freely; “in incredible numbers to the foot of the very
      tribune.”[206]—Such work is it, regenerating a Nation; perfecting
      one’s Theory of Irregular Verbs!


      Chapter 1.6.III.
      The General Overturn.

      Of the King’s Court, for the present, there is almost nothing
      whatever to be said. Silent, deserted are these halls; Royalty
      languishes forsaken of its war-god and all its hopes, till once
      the Œil-de-Bœuf rally again. The sceptre is departed from King
      Louis; is gone over to the _Salles des Menus_, to the Paris
      Townhall, or one knows not whither. In the July days, while all
      ears were yet deafened by the crash of the Bastille, and
      Ministers and Princes were scattered to the four winds, it seemed
      as if the very Valets had grown heavy of hearing. Besenval, also
      in flight towards Infinite Space, but hovering a little at
      Versailles, was addressing his Majesty personally for an Order
      about post-horses; when, lo, “the Valet in waiting places himself
      familiarly between his Majesty and me,” stretching out his rascal
      neck to learn what it was! His Majesty, in sudden choler, whirled
      round; made a clutch at the tongs: “I gently prevented him; he
      grasped my hand in thankfulness; and I noticed tears in his
      eyes.”[207]

      Poor King; for French Kings also are men! Louis Fourteenth
      himself once clutched the tongs, and even smote with them; but
      then it was at Louvois, and Dame Maintenon ran up.—The Queen sits
      weeping in her inner apartments, surrounded by weak women: she is
      “at the height of unpopularity;” universally regarded as the evil
      genius of France. Her friends and familiar counsellors have all
      fled; and fled, surely, on the foolishest errand. The Château
      Polignac still frowns aloft, on its “bold and enormous” cubical
      rock, amid the blooming champaigns, amid the blue girdling
      mountains of Auvergne:[208] but no Duke and Duchess Polignac look
      forth from it; they have fled, they have “met Necker at Bale;”
      they shall not return. That France should see her Nobles resist
      the Irresistible, Inevitable, with the face of angry men, was
      unhappy, not unexpected: but with the face and sense of pettish
      children? This was her peculiarity. They understood nothing;
      would understand nothing. Does not, at this hour, a new Polignac,
      first-born of these Two, sit reflective in the Castle of
      Ham;[209] in an astonishment he will never recover from; the most
      confused of existing mortals?

      King Louis has his new Ministry: mere Popularities; Old-President
      Pompignan; Necker, coming back in triumph; and other such.[210]
      But what will it avail him? As was said, the sceptre, all but the
      wooden gilt sceptre, has departed elsewhither. Volition,
      determination is not in this man: only innocence, indolence;
      dependence on all persons but himself, on all circumstances but
      the circumstances he were lord of. So troublous internally is our
      Versailles and its work. Beautiful, if seen from afar,
      resplendent like a Sun; seen near at hand, a mere
      Sun’s-Atmosphere, hiding darkness, confused ferment of ruin!

      But over France, there goes on the indisputablest “destruction of
      formulas;” transaction of realities that follow therefrom. So
      many millions of persons, all gyved, and nigh strangled, with
      formulas; whose Life nevertheless, at least the digestion and
      hunger of it, was real enough! Heaven has at length sent an
      abundant harvest; but what profits it the poor man, when Earth
      with her formulas interposes? Industry, in these times of
      Insurrection, must needs lie dormant; capital, as usual, not
      circulating, but stagnating timorously in nooks. The poor man is
      short of work, is therefore short of money; nay even had he
      money, bread is not to be bought for it. Were it plotting of
      Aristocrats, plotting of d’Orléans; were it Brigands,
      preternatural terror, and the clang of Phoebus Apollo’s silver
      bow,—enough, the markets are scarce of grain, plentiful only in
      tumult. Farmers seem lazy to thresh;—being either “bribed;” or
      needing no bribe, with prices ever rising, with perhaps rent
      itself no longer so pressing. Neither, what is singular, do
      municipal enactments, “That along with so many measures of wheat
      you shall sell so many of rye,” and other the like, much mend the
      matter. Dragoons with drawn swords stand ranked among the
      corn-sacks, often more dragoons than sacks.[211] Meal-mobs
      abound; growing into mobs of a still darker quality.

      Starvation has been known among the French Commonalty before
      this; known and familiar. Did we not see them, in the year 1775,
      presenting, in sallow faces, in wretchedness and raggedness,
      their Petition of Grievances; and, for answer, getting a
      brand-new Gallows forty feet high? Hunger and Darkness, through
      long years! For look back on that earlier Paris Riot, when a
      Great Personage, worn out by debauchery, was believed to be in
      want of Blood-baths; and Mothers, in worn raiment, yet with
      living hearts under it, “filled the public places” with their
      wild Rachel-cries,—stilled also by the Gallows. Twenty years ago,
      the Friend of Men (preaching to the deaf) described the Limousin
      Peasants as wearing a pain-stricken (_souffre-douleur_) look, a
      look _past_ complaint, “as if the oppression of the great were
      like the hail and the thunder, a thing irremediable, the
      ordinance of Nature.”[212] And now, if in some great hour, the
      shock of a falling Bastille should awaken you; and it were found
      to be the ordinance of Art merely; and remediable, reversible!

      Or has the Reader forgotten that “flood of savages,” which, in
      sight of the same Friend of Men, descended from the mountains at
      Mont d’Or? Lank-haired haggard faces; shapes rawboned, in high
      sabots; in woollen jupes, with leather girdles studded with
      copper-nails! They rocked from foot to foot, and beat time with
      their elbows too, as the quarrel and battle which was not long in
      beginning went on; shouting fiercely; the lank faces distorted
      into the similitude of a cruel laugh. For they were darkened and
      hardened: long had they been the prey of excise-men and tax-men;
      of “clerks with the cold spurt of their pen.” It was the fixed
      prophecy of our old Marquis, which no man would listen to, that
      “such Government by Blind-man’s-buff, stumbling along too far,
      would end by the General Overturn, the _Culbute Générale!_”

      No man would listen, each went his thoughtless way;—and Time and
      Destiny also travelled on. The Government by Blind-man’s-buff,
      stumbling along, has reached the precipice inevitable for it.
      Dull Drudgery, driven on, by clerks with the cold dastard spurt
      of their pen, has been driven—into a Communion of Drudges! For
      now, moreover, there have come the strangest confused tidings; by
      Paris Journals with their paper wings; or still more portentous,
      where no Journals are,[213] by rumour and conjecture: Oppression
      _not_ inevitable; a Bastille prostrate, and the Constitution fast
      getting ready! Which Constitution, if it be something and not
      nothing, what can it be but bread to eat?

      The Traveller, “walking up hill bridle in hand,” overtakes “a
      poor woman;” the image, as such commonly are, of drudgery and
      scarcity; “looking sixty years of age, though she is not yet
      twenty-eight.” They have seven children, her poor drudge and she:
      a farm, with one cow, which helps to make the children soup; also
      one little horse, or garron. They have rents and quit-rents, Hens
      to pay to this Seigneur, Oat-sacks to that; King’s taxes,
      Statute-labour, Church-taxes, taxes enough;—and think the times
      inexpressible. She has heard that some_where_, in some manner,
      some_thing_ is to be done for the poor: ‘God send it soon; for
      the dues and taxes crush us down (_nous écrasent_)!’[214]

      Fair prophecies are spoken, but they are not fulfilled. There
      have been Notables, Assemblages, turnings out and comings in.
      Intriguing and manœuvring; Parliamentary eloquence and arguing,
      Greek meeting Greek in high places, has long gone on; yet still
      bread comes not. The harvest is reaped and garnered; yet still we
      have no bread. Urged by despair and by hope, what can Drudgery
      do, but rise, as predicted, and produce the General Overturn?

      Fancy, then, some Five full-grown Millions of such gaunt figures,
      with their haggard faces (_figures hâves_); in woollen jupes,
      with copper-studded leather girths, and high sabots,—starting up
      to ask, as in forest-roarings, their washed Upper-Classes, after
      long unreviewed centuries, virtually this question: How have ye
      treated us; how have ye taught us, fed us, and led us, while we
      toiled for you? The answer can be read in flames, over the
      nightly summer sky. _This_ is the feeding and leading we have had
      of you: EMPTINESS,—of pocket, of stomach, of head, and of heart.
      Behold there is _nothing in us;_ nothing but what Nature gives
      her wild children of the desert: Ferocity and Appetite; Strength
      grounded on Hunger. Did ye mark among your Rights of Man, that
      man was not to die of starvation, while there was bread reaped by
      him? It is among the Mights of Man.

      Seventy-two Châteaus have flamed aloft in the Maconnais and
      Beaujolais alone: this seems the centre of the conflagration; but
      it has spread over Dauphiné, Alsace, the Lyonnais; the whole
      South-East is in a blaze. All over the North, from Rouen to Metz,
      disorder is abroad: smugglers of salt go openly in armed bands:
      the barriers of towns are burnt; toll-gatherers, tax-gatherers,
      official persons put to flight. “It was thought,” says Young,
      “the people, from hunger, would revolt;” and we see they have
      done it. Desperate Lackalls, long prowling aimless, now finding
      hope in desperation itself, everywhere form a nucleus. They ring
      the Church bell by way of tocsin: and the Parish turns out to the
      work.[215] Ferocity, atrocity; hunger and revenge: such work as
      we can imagine!

      Ill stands it now with the Seigneur, who, for example, “has
      walled up the only Fountain of the Township;” who has ridden high
      on his _chartier_ and parchments; who has preserved Game not
      wisely but too well. Churches also, and Canonries, are sacked,
      without mercy; which have shorn the flock too close, forgetting
      to feed it. Wo to the land over which Sansculottism, in its day
      of vengeance, tramps roughshod,—shod in sabots! Highbred
      Seigneurs, with their delicate women and little ones, had to “fly
      half-naked,” under cloud of night; glad to escape the flames, and
      even worse. You meet them at the _tables-d’hôte_ of inns; making
      wise reflections or foolish that “rank is destroyed;” uncertain
      whither they shall now wend.[216] The _métayer_ will find it
      convenient to be slack in paying rent. As for the Tax-gatherer,
      he, long hunting as a biped of prey, may now get hunted as one;
      his Majesty’s Exchequer will not “fill up the Deficit,” this
      season: it is the notion of many that a Patriot Majesty, being
      the Restorer of French Liberty, has abolished most taxes, though,
      for their private ends, some men make a secret of it.

      Where this will end? In the Abyss, one may prophecy; whither all
      Delusions are, at all moments, travelling; where this Delusion
      has now arrived. For if there be a Faith, from of old, it is
      this, as we often repeat, that no Lie can live for ever. The very
      Truth has to change its vesture, from time to time; and be born
      again. But all Lies have sentence of death written down against
      them, and Heaven’s Chancery itself; and, slowly or fast, advance
      incessantly towards their hour. “The sign of a Grand Seigneur
      being landlord,” says the vehement plain-spoken Arthur Young,
      “are wastes, _landes_, deserts, ling: go to his residence, you
      will find it in the middle of a forest, peopled with deer, wild
      boars and wolves. The fields are scenes of pitiable management,
      as the houses are of misery. To see so many millions of hands,
      that would be industrious, all idle and starving: Oh, if I were
      legislator of France, for one day, I would make these great lords
      skip again!”[217] O Arthur, thou now actually beholdest them
      _skip;_—wilt thou grow to grumble at that too?

      For long years and generations it lasted, but the time came.
      Featherbrain, whom no reasoning and no pleading could touch, the
      glare of the firebrand had to illuminate: there remained but that
      method. Consider it, look at it! The widow is gathering nettles
      for her children’s dinner; a perfumed Seigneur, delicately
      lounging in the Œil-de-Bœuf, has an alchemy whereby he will
      extract from her the third nettle, and name it Rent and Law: such
      an arrangement must end. Ought it? But, O most fearful is _such_
      an ending! Let those, to whom God, in His great mercy, has
      granted time and space, prepare another and milder one.

      To some it is a matter of wonder that the Seigneurs did not do
      something to help themselves; say, combine, and arm: for there
      were a “hundred and fifty thousand of them,” all violent enough.
      Unhappily, a hundred and fifty thousand, scattered over wide
      Provinces, divided by mutual ill-will, cannot combine. The
      highest Seigneurs, as we have seen, had already emigrated,—with a
      view of putting France to the blush. Neither are arms now the
      peculiar property of Seigneurs; but of every mortal who has ten
      shillings, wherewith to buy a secondhand firelock.

      Besides, those starving Peasants, after all, have not four feet
      and claws, that you could keep them down permanently in that
      manner. They are not even of black colour; they are mere Unwashed
      Seigneurs; and a Seigneur too has human bowels!—The Seigneurs did
      what they could; enrolled in National Guards; fled, with shrieks,
      complaining to Heaven and Earth. One Seigneur, famed Memmay of
      Quincey, near Vesoul, invited all the rustics of his
      neighbourhood to a banquet; blew up his Château and them with
      gunpowder; and instantaneously vanished, no man yet knows
      whither.[218] Some half dozen years after, he came back; and
      demonstrated that it was by accident.

      Nor are the authorities idle: though unluckily, all Authorities,
      Municipalities and such like, are in the uncertain transitionary
      state; getting regenerated from old Monarchic to new Democratic;
      no Official yet knows clearly what he is. Nevertheless, Mayors
      old or new do gather _Marechaussées_, National Guards, Troops of
      the line; justice, of the most summary sort, is not wanting. The
      Electoral Committee of Macon, though but a Committee, goes the
      length of hanging, for its own behoof, as many as twenty. The
      Prévôt of Dauphiné traverses the country “with a movable column,”
      with tipstaves, gallows-ropes; for gallows any tree will serve,
      and suspend its culprit, or “thirteen” culprits.

      Unhappy country! How is the fair gold-and-green of the ripe
      bright Year defaced with horrid blackness: black ashes of
      Châteaus, black bodies of gibetted Men! Industry has ceased in
      it; not sounds of the hammer and saw, but of the tocsin and
      alarm-drum. The sceptre has departed, _whither_ one knows
      not;—breaking itself in pieces: here impotent, there tyrannous.
      National Guards are unskilful, and of doubtful purpose; Soldiers
      are inclined to mutiny: there is danger that they two may
      quarrel, danger that they may _agree_. Strasburg has seen riots:
      a Townhall torn to shreds, its archives scattered white on the
      winds; drunk soldiers embracing drunk citizens for three days,
      and Mayor Dietrich and Marshal Rochambeau reduced nigh to
      desperation.[219]

      Through the middle of all which phenomena, is seen, on his
      triumphant transit, “escorted,” through Béfort for instance, “by
      fifty National Horsemen and all the military music of the
      place,”—M. Necker, returning from Bale! Glorious as the meridian;
      though poor Necker himself partly guesses whither it is
      leading.[220] One highest culminating day, at the Paris Townhall;
      with immortal vivats, with wife and daughter kneeling publicly to
      kiss his hand; with Besenval’s pardon granted,—but indeed revoked
      before sunset: one highest day, but then lower days, and ever
      lower, down even to lowest! Such magic is in a name; and in the
      want of a name. Like some enchanted Mambrino’s Helmet, essential
      to victory, comes this “Saviour of France;” beshouted,
      becymballed by the world:—alas, so soon, to be _dis_enchanted, to
      be pitched shamefully over the lists as a Barber’s Bason! Gibbon
      “could wish to shew him” (in this ejected, Barber’s-Bason state)
      to any man of solidity, who were minded to have the soul burnt
      out of him, and become a _caput mortuum_, by Ambition,
      unsuccessful or successful.[221]

      Another small phasis we add, and no more: how, in the Autumn
      months, our sharp-tempered Arthur has been “pestered for some
      days past,” by shot, lead-drops and slugs, “rattling five or six
      times into my chaise and about my ears;” all the mob of the
      country gone out to kill game![222] It is even so. On the Cliffs
      of Dover, over all the Marches of France, there appear, this
      autumn, two Signs on the Earth: emigrant flights of French
      Seigneurs; emigrant winged flights of French Game! Finished, one
      may say, or as good as finished, is the Preservation of Game on
      this Earth; completed for endless Time. What part it had to play
      in the History of Civilisation is played _plaudite; exeat!_

      In this manner does Sansculottism blaze up, illustrating many
      things;—producing, among the rest, as we saw, on the Fourth of
      August, that semi-miraculous Night of Pentecost in the National
      Assembly; semi miraculous, which had its causes, and its effects.
      Feudalism is struck dead; not on parchment only, and by ink; but
      in very fact, by fire; say, by self-combustion. This
      conflagration of the South-East will abate; will be got
      scattered, to the West, or elsewhither: extinguish it will not,
      till the _fuel_ be all done.


      Chapter 1.6.IV.
      In Queue.

      If we look now at Paris, one thing is too evident: that the
      Baker’s shops have got their _Queues_, or Tails; their long
      strings of purchasers, arranged _in tail_, so that the first come
      be the first served,—were the shop once open! This waiting in
      tail, not seen since the early days of July, again makes its
      appearance in August. In time, we shall see it perfected by
      practice to the rank almost of an art; and the art, or quasi-art,
      of standing in tail become one of the characteristics of the
      Parisian People, distinguishing them from all other Peoples
      whatsoever.

      But consider, while work itself is so scarce, how a man must not
      only realise money; but stand waiting (if his wife is too weak to
      wait and struggle) for half days in the Tail, till he get it
      changed for dear bad bread! Controversies, to the length,
      sometimes of blood and battery, must arise in these exasperated
      Queues. Or if no controversy, then it is but one accordant _Pange
      Lingua_ of complaint against the Powers that be. France has begun
      her long Curriculum of Hungering, instructive and productive
      beyond Academic Curriculums; which extends over some seven most
      strenuous years. As Jean Paul says, of his own Life, “to a great
      height shall the business of Hungering go.”

      Or consider, in strange contrast, the jubilee Ceremonies; for, in
      general, the aspect of Paris presents these two features: jubilee
      ceremonials and scarcity of victual. Processions enough walk in
      jubilee; of Young Women, decked and dizened, their ribands all
      tricolor; moving with song and tabor, to the Shrine of Sainte
      Genevieve, to thank her that the Bastille is down. The Strong Men
      of the Market, and the Strong Women, fail not with their bouquets
      and speeches. Abbé Fauchet, famed in such work (for Abbé Lefevre
      could only distribute powder) blesses tricolor cloth for the
      National Guard; and makes it a National Tricolor Flag;
      victorious, or to be victorious, in the cause of civil and
      religious liberty all over the world. Fauchet, we say, is the man
      for _Te-Deums_, and public Consecrations;—to which, as in this
      instance of the Flag, our National Guard will “reply with volleys
      of musketry,” Church and Cathedral though it be;[223] filling
      Notre Dame with such noisiest fuliginous Amen, significant of
      several things.

      On the whole, we will say our new Mayor Bailly; our new Commander
      Lafayette, named also “Scipio-Americanus,” have bought their
      preferment dear. Bailly rides in gilt state-coach, with
      beefeaters and sumptuosity; Camille Desmoulins, and others,
      sniffing at him for it: Scipio bestrides the “white charger,” and
      waves with civic plumes in sight of all France. Neither of them,
      however, does it for nothing; but, in truth, at an exorbitant
      rate. At this rate, namely: of feeding Paris, and keeping it from
      fighting. Out of the City-funds, some seventeen thousand of the
      utterly destitute are employed digging on Montmartre, at tenpence
      a day, which buys them, at market price, almost two pounds of bad
      bread;—they look very yellow, when Lafayette goes to harangue
      them. The Townhall is in travail, night and day; it must bring
      forth Bread, a Municipal Constitution, regulations of all kinds,
      curbs on the Sansculottic Press; above all, Bread, Bread.

      Purveyors prowl the country far and wide, with the appetite of
      lions; detect hidden grain, purchase open grain; by gentle means
      or forcible, must and will find grain. A most thankless task; and
      so difficult, so dangerous,—even if a man did gain some trifle by
      it! On the 19th August, there is food for one day.[224]
      Complaints there are that the food is spoiled, and produces an
      effect on the intestines: not corn but plaster-of-Paris! Which
      effect on the intestines, as well as that “smarting in the throat
      and palate,” a Townhall Proclamation warns you to disregard, or
      even to consider as drastic-beneficial. The Mayor of Saint-Denis,
      so black was his bread, has, by a dyspeptic populace, been hanged
      on the Lanterne there. National Guards protect the Paris
      Corn-Market: first ten suffice; then six hundred.[225] Busy are
      ye, Bailly, Brissot de Warville, Condorcet, and ye others!

      For, as just hinted, there is a Municipal Constitution to be made
      too. The old Bastille Electors, after some ten days of
      psalmodying over their glorious victory, began to hear it asked,
      in a splenetic tone, Who put you there? They accordingly had to
      give place, not without moanings, and audible growlings on both
      sides, to a new larger Body, specially elected for that post.
      Which new Body, augmented, altered, then fixed finally at the
      number of Three Hundred, with the title of Town Representatives
      (_Représentans de la Commune_), now sits there; rightly portioned
      into Committees; assiduous making a Constitution; at all moments
      when not seeking flour.

      And such a Constitution; little short of miraculous: one that
      shall “consolidate the Revolution”! The Revolution is finished,
      then? Mayor Bailly and all respectable friends of Freedom would
      fain think so. Your Revolution, like jelly sufficiently _boiled_,
      needs only to be poured into _shapes_, of Constitution, and
      “consolidated” therein? Could it, indeed, contrive to _cool;_
      which last, however, is precisely the doubtful thing, or even the
      not doubtful!

      Unhappy friends of Freedom; consolidating a Revolution! They must
      sit at work there, their pavilion spread on very Chaos; between
      two hostile worlds, the Upper Court-world, the Nether
      Sansculottic one; and, beaten on by both, toil painfully,
      perilously,—doing, in sad literal earnest, “the impossible.”


      Chapter 1.6.V.
      The Fourth Estate.

      Pamphleteering opens its abysmal throat wider and wider: never to
      close more. Our Philosophes, indeed, rather withdraw; after the
      manner of Marmontel, “retiring in disgust the first day.” Abbé
      Raynal, grown gray and quiet in his Marseilles domicile, is
      little content with this work; the last literary act of the man
      will again be an act of rebellion: an indignant _Letter to the
      Constituent Assembly;_ answered by “the order of the day.” Thus
      also Philosophe Morellet puckers discontented brows; being indeed
      threatened in his benefices by that Fourth of August: it is
      clearly going too far. How astonishing that those “haggard
      figures in woollen jupes” would not rest as satisfied with
      Speculation, and victorious Analysis, as we!

      Alas, yes: Speculation, Philosophism, once the ornament and
      wealth of the saloon, will now coin itself into mere Practical
      Propositions, and circulate on street and highway, universally;
      with results! A Fourth Estate, of Able Editors, springs up;
      increases and multiplies; irrepressible, incalculable. New
      Printers, new Journals, and ever new (so prurient is the world),
      let our Three Hundred curb and consolidate as they can!
      Loustalot, under the wing of Prudhomme dull-blustering Printer,
      edits weekly his _Révolutions de Paris;_ in an acrid, emphatic
      manner. Acrid, corrosive, as the spirit of sloes and copperas, is
      Marat, _Friend of the People;_ struck already with the fact that
      the National Assembly, so full of Aristocrats, “can do nothing,”
      except dissolve itself, and make way for a better; that the
      Townhall Representatives are little other than babblers and
      imbeciles, if not even knaves. Poor is this man; squalid, and
      dwells in garrets; a man unlovely to the sense, outward and
      inward; a man forbid;—and is becoming fanatical, possessed with
      fixed-idea. Cruel _lusus_ of Nature! Did Nature, O poor Marat, as
      in cruel sport, knead thee out of her _leavings_, and
      miscellaneous waste clay; and fling thee forth stepdamelike, a
      Distraction into this distracted Eighteenth Century? Work is
      appointed thee there; which thou shalt do. The Three Hundred have
      summoned and will again summon Marat: but always he croaks forth
      answer sufficient; always he will defy them, or elude them; and
      endure no gag.

      Carra, “Ex-secretary of a decapitated Hospodar,” and then of a
      Necklace-Cardinal; likewise pamphleteer, Adventurer in many
      scenes and lands,—draws nigh to Mercier, of the _Tableau de
      Paris;_ and, with foam on his lips, proposes an _Annales
      Patriotiques_. The _Moniteur_ goes its prosperous way; Barrère
      “weeps,” on Paper as yet loyal; Rivarol, Royou are not idle. Deep
      calls to deep: your _Domine Salvum Fac Regem_ shall awaken _Pange
      Lingua;_ with an _Ami-du-Peuple_ there is a King’s-Friend
      Newspaper, _Ami-du-Roi_. Camille Desmoulins has appointed himself
      _Procureur-Général de la Lanterne_, Attorney-General of the
      Lamp-iron; and pleads, _not_ with atrocity, under an atrocious
      title; editing weekly his brilliant _Revolutions of Paris and
      Brabant_. Brilliant, we say: for if, in that thick murk of
      Journalism, with its dull blustering, with its fixed or loose
      fury, any ray of genius greet thee, be sure it is Camille’s. The
      thing that Camille teaches he, with his light finger, adorns:
      brightness plays, gentle, unexpected, amid horrible confusions;
      often is the word of Camille worth reading, when no other’s is.
      Questionable Camille, how thou glitterest with a fallen,
      rebellious, yet still semi-celestial light; as is the star-light
      on the brow of Lucifer! Son of the Morning, into what times and
      what lands, art thou fallen!

      But in all things is good;—though not good for “consolidating
      Revolutions.” Thousand wagon-loads of this Pamphleteering and
      Newspaper matter, lie rotting slowly in the Public Libraries of
      our Europe. Snatched from the great gulf, like oysters by
      bibliomaniac pearl-divers, there must they first _rot_, then what
      was pearl, in Camille or others, may be seen as such, and
      continue as such.

      Nor has public speaking declined, though Lafayette and his
      Patrols look sour on it. Loud always is the Palais Royal, loudest
      the Café de Foy; such a miscellany of Citizens and Citizenesses
      circulating there. “Now and then,” according to Camille, “some
      Citizens employ the liberty of the _press_ for a private purpose;
      so that this or the other Patriot finds himself short of his
      watch or pocket-handkerchief!” But, for the rest, in Camille’s
      opinion, nothing can be a livelier image of the Roman Forum. “A
      Patriot proposes his motion; if it finds any supporters, they
      make him mount on a chair, and speak. If he is applauded, he
      prospers and redacts; if he is hissed, he goes his ways.” Thus
      they, circulating and perorating. Tall shaggy Marquis
      Saint-Huruge, a man that has had losses, and has deserved them,
      is seen eminent, and also heard. “Bellowing” is the character of
      his voice, like that of a Bull of Bashan; voice which drowns all
      voices, which causes frequently the hearts of men to leap.
      Cracked or half-cracked is this tall Marquis’s head; uncracked
      are his lungs; the cracked and the uncracked shall alike avail
      him.

      Consider farther that each of the Forty-eight Districts has its
      own Committee; speaking and motioning continually; aiding in the
      search for grain, in the search for a Constitution; checking and
      spurring the poor Three Hundred of the Townhall. That Danton,
      with a “voice reverberating from the domes,” is President of the
      Cordeliers District; which has already become a Goshen of
      Patriotism. That apart from the “seventeen thousand utterly
      necessitous, digging on Montmartre,” most of whom, indeed, have
      got passes, and been dismissed into Space “with four
      shillings,”—there is a _strike_, or union, of Domestics out of
      place; who assemble for public speaking: next, a strike of
      Tailors, for even they will strike and speak; further, a strike
      of Journeymen Cordwainers; a strike of Apothecaries: so dear is
      bread.[226] All these, having struck, must speak; generally under
      the open canopy; and pass resolutions;—Lafayette and his Patrols
      watching them suspiciously from the distance.

      Unhappy mortals: such tugging and lugging, and throttling of one
      another, to divide, in some not intolerable way, the joint
      Felicity of man in this Earth; when the whole lot to be divided
      is such a “feast of _shells!_”—Diligent are the Three Hundred;
      none equals Scipio Americanus in dealing with mobs. But surely
      all these things bode ill for the consolidating of a Revolution.


      BOOK VII.
      THE INSURRECTION OF WOMEN


      Chapter 1.7.I.
      Patrollotism.

      No, Friends, this Revolution is not of the consolidating kind. Do
      not fires, fevers, sown seeds, chemical mixtures, men, events;
      all embodiments of Force that work in this miraculous Complex of
      Forces, named Universe,—go on _growing_, through their natural
      phases and developments, each according to its kind; reach their
      height, reach their visible decline; finally sink under,
      vanishing, and what we call _die?_ They all grow; there is
      nothing but what grows, and shoots forth into its special
      expansion,—once give it leave to spring. Observe too that each
      grows with a rapidity proportioned, in general, to the madness
      and unhealthiness there is in it: slow regular growth, though
      this also ends in death, is what we name health and sanity.

      A Sansculottism, which has prostrated Bastilles, which has got
      pike and musket, and now goes burning Châteaus, passing
      resolutions and haranguing under roof and sky, may be said to
      have sprung; and, by law of Nature, must grow. To judge by the
      madness and diseasedness both of itself, and of the soil and
      element it is in, one might expect the rapidity and monstrosity
      would be extreme.

      Many things too, especially all diseased things, grow by shoots
      and fits. The first grand fit and shooting forth of Sansculottism
      with that of Paris conquering its King; for Bailly’s figure of
      rhetoric was all-too sad a reality. The King is conquered; going
      at large on his parole; on condition, say, of absolutely good
      behaviour,—which, in these circumstances, will unhappily mean no
      behaviour whatever. A quite untenable position, that of Majesty
      put on its good behaviour! Alas, is it not natural that whatever
      lives try to keep itself living? Whereupon his Majesty’s
      behaviour will soon become exceptionable; and so the Second grand
      Fit of Sansculottism, that of putting him in durance, cannot be
      distant.

      Necker, in the National Assembly, is making moan, as usual about
      his Deficit: Barriers and Customhouses burnt; the Tax-gatherer
      hunted, not hunting; his Majesty’s Exchequer all but empty. The
      remedy is a Loan of thirty millions; then, on still more enticing
      terms, a Loan of eighty millions: neither of which Loans,
      unhappily, will the Stockjobbers venture to lend. The Stockjobber
      has no country, except his own black pool of _Agio_.

      And yet, in those days, for men that have a country, what a glow
      of patriotism burns in many a heart; penetrating inwards to the
      very purse! So early as the 7th of August, a _Don Patriotique_,
      “a Patriotic Gift of jewels to a considerable extent,” has been
      solemnly made by certain Parisian women; and solemnly accepted,
      with honourable mention. Whom forthwith all the world takes to
      imitating and emulating. Patriotic Gifts, always with some heroic
      eloquence, which the President must answer and the Assembly
      listen to, flow in from far and near: in such number that the
      honourable mention can only be performed in “lists published at
      stated epochs.” Each gives what he can: the very cordwainers have
      behaved munificently; one landed proprietor gives a forest;
      fashionable society gives its shoebuckles, takes cheerfully to
      shoe-ties. Unfortunate females give what they “have amassed in
      loving.”[227] The smell of all cash, as Vespasian thought, is
      good.

      Beautiful, and yet inadequate! The Clergy must be “invited” to
      melt their superfluous Church-plate,—in the Royal Mint. Nay
      finally, a Patriotic Contribution, of the forcible sort, must be
      determined on, though unwillingly: let the fourth part of your
      declared yearly revenue, for this once only, be paid down; so
      shall a National Assembly make the Constitution, undistracted at
      least by insolvency. Their own wages, as settled on the 17th of
      August, are but Eighteen Francs a day, each man; but the Public
      Service must have sinews, must have money. To _appease_ the
      Deficit; not to “_combler_, or choke the Deficit,” if you or
      mortal could! For withal, as Mirabeau was heard saying, ‘it is
      the Deficit that saves us.’

      Towards the end of August, our National Assembly in its
      constitutional labours, has got so far as the question of _Veto:_
      shall Majesty have a Veto on the National Enactments; or not have
      a Veto? What speeches were spoken, within doors and without;
      clear, and also passionate logic; imprecations, comminations;
      gone happily, for most part, to Limbo! Through the cracked brain,
      and uncracked lungs of Saint-Huruge, the Palais Royal rebellows
      with Veto. Journalism is busy, France rings with Veto. “I shall
      never forget,” says Dumont, “my going to Paris, one of these
      days, with Mirabeau; and the crowd of people we found waiting for
      his carriage, about Le Jay the Bookseller’s shop. They flung
      themselves before him; conjuring him with tears in their eyes not
      to suffer the _Veto Absolu_. They were in a frenzy: ‘Monsieur le
      Comte, you are the people’s father; you must save us; you must
      defend us against those villains who are bringing back Despotism.
      If the King get this Veto, what is the use of National Assembly?
      We are slaves, all is done.’”[228] Friends, _if_ the sky fall,
      there will be catching of larks! Mirabeau, adds Dumont, was
      eminent on such occasions: he answered vaguely, with a Patrician
      imperturbability, and bound himself to nothing.

      Deputations go to the Hôtel-de-Ville; anonymous Letters to
      Aristocrats in the National Assembly, threatening that fifteen
      thousand, or sometimes that sixty thousand, “will march to
      illuminate you.” The Paris Districts are astir; Petitions
      signing: Saint-Huruge sets forth from the Palais Royal, with an
      escort of fifteen hundred individuals, to petition in person.
      Resolute, or seemingly so, is the tall shaggy Marquis, is the
      Café de Foy: but resolute also is Commandant-General Lafayette.
      The streets are all beset by Patrols: Saint-Huruge is stopped at
      the _Barrière des Bon Hommes;_ he may bellow like the bulls of
      Bashan; but absolutely must return. The brethren of the Palais
      Royal “circulate all night,” and make motions, under the open
      canopy; all Coffee-houses being shut. Nevertheless Lafayette and
      the Townhall do prevail: Saint-Huruge is thrown into prison;
      _Veto Absolu_ adjusts itself into _Suspensive Veto_, prohibition
      not forever, but for a term of time; and this doom’s-clamour will
      grow silent, as the others have done.

      So far has Consolidation prospered, though with difficulty;
      repressing the Nether Sansculottic world; and the Constitution
      shall be made. With difficulty: amid jubilee and scarcity;
      Patriotic Gifts, Bakers’-queues; Abbé-Fauchet Harangues, with
      their _Amen_ of platoon-musketry! Scipio Americanus has deserved
      thanks from the National Assembly and France. They offer him
      stipends and emoluments, to a handsome extent; all which stipends
      and emoluments he, covetous of far other blessedness than mere
      money, does, in his chivalrous way, without scruple, refuse.

      To the Parisian common man, meanwhile, one thing remains
      inconceivable: that now when the Bastille is down, and French
      Liberty restored, grain should continue so dear. Our Rights of
      Man are voted, Feudalism and all Tyranny abolished; yet behold we
      stand _in queue!_ Is it Aristocrat forestallers; a Court still
      bent on intrigues? Something is rotten, somewhere.

      And yet, alas, what to do? Lafayette, with his Patrols prohibits
      every thing, even complaint. Saint-Huruge and other heroes of the
      _Veto_ lie in durance. People’s-Friend Marat was seized; Printers
      of Patriotic Journals are fettered and forbidden; the very
      Hawkers cannot cry, till they get license, and leaden badges.
      Blue National Guards ruthlessly dissipate all groups; scour, with
      levelled bayonets, the Palais Royal itself. Pass, on your
      affairs, along the Rue Taranne, the Patrol, presenting his
      bayonet, cries, _To the left!_ Turn into the Rue Saint-Benoit, he
      cries, _To the right!_ A judicious Patriot (like Camille
      Desmoulins, in this instance) is driven, for quietness’s sake, to
      take the gutter.

      O much-suffering People, our glorious Revolution is evaporating
      in tricolor ceremonies, and complimentary harangues! Of which
      latter, as Loustalot acridly calculates, “upwards of two thousand
      have been delivered within the last month, at the Townhall
      alone.”[229] And our mouths, unfilled with bread, are to be shut,
      under penalties? The Caricaturist promulgates his emblematic
      Tablature: _Le Patrouillotisme chassant le Patriotisme_,
      Patriotism driven out by Patrollotism. Ruthless Patrols; long
      superfine harangues; and scanty ill-baked loaves, more like baked
      Bath bricks,—which produce an effect on the intestines! Where
      will this end? In consolidation?


      Chapter 1.7.II.
      O Richard, O my King.

      For, alas, neither is the Townhall itself without misgivings. The
      Nether Sansculottic world has been suppressed hitherto: but then
      the Upper Court-world! Symptoms there are that the Œil-de-Bœuf is
      rallying.

      More than once in the Townhall Sanhedrim; often enough, from
      those outspoken Bakers’-queues, has the wish uttered itself: O
      that our Restorer of French Liberty were here; that he could see
      with his own eyes, not with the false eyes of Queens and Cabals,
      and his really good heart be enlightened! For falsehood still
      environs him; intriguing Dukes de Guiche, with Bodyguards; scouts
      of Bouillé; a new flight of intriguers, now that the old is
      flown. What else means this advent of the _Regiment de Flandre;_
      entering Versailles, as we hear, on the 23rd of September, with
      two pieces of cannon? Did not the Versailles National Guard do
      duty at the Château? Had they not Swiss; Hundred Swiss;
      _Gardes-du-Corps_, Bodyguards so-called? Nay, it would seem, the
      number of Bodyguards on duty has, by a manœuvre, been doubled:
      the new relieving Battalion of them arrived at its time; but the
      old relieved one does not _depart!_

      Actually, there runs a whisper through the best informed
      Upper-Circles, or a nod still more potentous than whispering, of
      his Majesty’s flying to Metz; of a Bond (to stand by him therein)
      which has been signed by Noblesse and Clergy, to the incredible
      amount of thirty, or even of sixty thousand. Lafayette coldly
      whispers it, and coldly asseverates it, to Count d’Estaing at the
      Dinner-table; and d’Estaing, one of the bravest men, quakes to
      the core lest some lackey overhear it; and tumbles thoughtful,
      without sleep, all night.[230] Regiment Flandre, as we said, is
      clearly arrived. His Majesty, they say, hesitates about
      sanctioning the Fourth of August; makes observations, of chilling
      tenor, on the very Rights of Man! Likewise, may not all persons,
      the Bakers’-queues themselves discern on the streets of Paris,
      the most astonishing number of Officers on furlough, Crosses of
      St. Louis, and such like? Some reckon “from a thousand to twelve
      hundred.” Officers of all uniforms; nay one uniform never before
      seen by eye: green faced with red! The tricolor cockade is not
      always visible: but what, in the name of Heaven, may these
      _black_ cockades, which some wear, foreshadow?

      Hunger whets everything, especially Suspicion and Indignation.
      Realities themselves, in this Paris, have grown unreal:
      preternatural. Phantasms once more stalk through the brain of
      hungry France. O ye laggards and dastards, cry shrill voices from
      the Queues, if ye had the hearts of men, ye would take your pikes
      and secondhand firelocks, and look into it; not leave your wives
      and daughters to be starved, murdered, and worse!—Peace, women!
      The heart of man is bitter and heavy; Patriotism, driven out by
      Patrollotism, knows not what to resolve on.

      The truth is, the Œil-de-Bœuf has rallied; to a certain unknown
      extent. A changed Œil-de-Bœuf; with Versailles National Guards,
      in their tricolor cockades, doing duty there; a Court all flaring
      with tricolor! Yet even to a tricolor Court men will rally. Ye
      loyal hearts, burnt-out Seigneurs, rally round your Queen! With
      wishes; which will produce hopes; which will produce attempts!

      For indeed self-preservation being such a law of Nature, what can
      a rallied Court do, but attempt and endeavour, or call it
      _plot_,—with such wisdom and unwisdom as it has? They will fly,
      escorted, to Metz, where brave Bouillé commands; they will raise
      the Royal Standard: the Bond-signatures shall become armed men.
      Were not the King so languid! Their Bond, if at all signed, must
      be signed without his privity.—Unhappy King, _he_ has but one
      resolution: not to have a civil war. For the rest, he still
      hunts, having ceased lockmaking; he still dozes, and digests; is
      clay in the hands of the potter. Ill will it fare with him, in a
      world where all is helping itself; where, as has been written,
      “whosoever is not hammer must be stithy;” and “the very hyssop on
      the wall grows there, in that chink, because the whole Universe
      could not prevent its growing!”

      But as for the coming up of this Regiment de Flandre, may it not
      be urged that there were Saint-Huruge Petitions, and continual
      meal-mobs? Undebauched Soldiers, be there plot, or only dim
      elements of a plot, are always good. Did not the Versailles
      Municipality (an old Monarchic one, not yet refounded into a
      Democratic) instantly second the proposal? Nay the very
      Versailles National Guard, wearied with continual duty at the
      Château, did not object; only Draper Lecointre, who is now Major
      Lecointre, shook his head.—Yes, Friends, surely it was natural
      this Regiment de Flandre should be sent for, since it could be
      got. It was natural that, at sight of military bandoleers, the
      heart of the rallied Œil-de-Bœuf should revive; and Maids of
      Honour, and gentlemen of honour, speak comfortable words to
      epauletted defenders, and to one another. Natural also, and mere
      common civility, that the Bodyguards, a Regiment of Gentlemen,
      should invite their Flandre brethren to a Dinner of welcome!—Such
      invitation, in the last days of September, is given and accepted.

      Dinners are defined as “the _ultimate_ act of communion;” men
      that can have communion in nothing else, can sympathetically eat
      together, can still rise into some glow of brotherhood over food
      and wine. The dinner is fixed on, for Thursday the First of
      October; and ought to have a fine effect. Further, as such Dinner
      may be rather extensive, and even the Noncommissioned and the
      Common man be introduced, to see and to hear, could not His
      Majesty’s Opera Apartment, which has lain quite silent ever since
      Kaiser Joseph was here, be obtained for the purpose?—The Hall of
      the Opera is granted; the Salon d’Hercule shall be drawingroom.
      Not only the Officers of Flandre, but of the Swiss, of the
      Hundred Swiss, nay of the Versailles National Guard, such of them
      as have any loyalty, shall feast: it will be a Repast like few.

      And now suppose this Repast, the solid part of it, transacted;
      and the first bottle over. Suppose the customary loyal toasts
      drunk; the King’s health, the Queen’s with deafening vivats;—that
      of the Nation “omitted,” or even “rejected.” Suppose champagne
      flowing; with pot-valorous speech, with instrumental music; empty
      feathered heads growing ever the noisier, in their own emptiness,
      in each other’s noise! Her Majesty, who looks unusually sad
      tonight (his Majesty sitting dulled with the day’s hunting), is
      told that the sight of it would cheer her. Behold! She enters
      there, issuing from her State-rooms, like the Moon from the
      clouds, this fairest unhappy Queen of Hearts; royal Husband by
      her side, young Dauphin in her arms! She descends from the Boxes,
      amid splendour and acclaim; walks queen-like, round the Tables;
      gracefully escorted, gracefully nodding; her looks full of
      sorrow, yet of gratitude and daring, with the hope of France on
      her mother-bosom! And now, the band striking up, _O Richard, O
      mon Roi, l’univers t’abandonne_ (O Richard, O my King, and world
      is all forsaking thee)—could man do other than rise to height of
      pity, of loyal valour? Could featherheaded young ensigns do other
      than, by white Bourbon Cockades, handed them from fair fingers;
      by waving of swords, drawn to pledge the Queen’s health; by
      trampling of National Cockades; by scaling the Boxes, whence
      intrusive murmurs may come; by vociferation, tripudiation, sound,
      fury and distraction, within doors and without,—testify what
      tempest-tost state of vacuity they are in? Till champagne and
      tripudiation do their work; and all lie silent, horizontal;
      passively slumbering, with meed-of-battle dreams!—

      A natural Repast, in ordinary times, a harmless one: now fatal,
      as that of Thyestes; as that of Job’s Sons, when a strong wind
      smote the four corners of their banquet-house! Poor ill-advised
      Marie-Antoinette; with a woman’s vehemence, not with a
      sovereign’s foresight! It was so natural, yet so unwise. Next
      day, in public speech of ceremony, her Majesty declares herself
      “delighted with the Thursday.”

      The heart of the Œil-de-Bœuf glows into hope; into daring, which
      is premature. Rallied Maids of Honour, waited on by Abbés, sew
      “white cockades;” distribute them, with words, with glances, to
      epauletted youths; who in return, may kiss, not without fervour,
      the fair sewing fingers. Captains of horse and foot go swashing
      with “enormous white cockades;” nay one Versailles National
      Captain had mounted the like, so witching were the words and
      glances; and laid aside his tricolor! Well may Major Lecointre
      shake his head with a look of severity; and speak audible
      resentful words. But now a swashbuckler, with enormous white
      cockade, overhearing the Major, invites him insolently, once and
      then again elsewhere, to recant; and failing that, to duel. Which
      latter feat Major Lecointre declares that he will not perform,
      not at least by any known laws of fence; that he nevertheless
      will, according to mere law of Nature, by dirk and blade,
      “exterminate” any “vile gladiator,” who may insult him or the
      Nation;—whereupon (for the Major is actually drawing his
      implement) “they are parted,” and no weasands slit.[231]


      Chapter 1.7.III.
      Black Cockades.

      But fancy what effect this Thyestes Repast and trampling on the
      National Cockade, must have had in the _Salle des Menus;_ in the
      famishing Bakers’-queues at Paris! Nay such Thyestes Repasts, it
      would seem, continue. Flandre has given its Counter-Dinner to the
      Swiss and Hundred Swiss; then on Saturday there has been another.

      Yes, here with us is famine; but yonder at Versailles is food;
      enough and to spare! Patriotism stands in queue, shivering
      hungerstruck, insulted by Patrollotism; while bloodyminded
      Aristocrats, heated with excess of high living, trample on the
      National Cockade. Can the atrocity be true? Nay, look: green
      uniforms faced with red; black cockades,—the colour of Night! Are
      we to have military onfall; and death also by starvation? For
      behold the Corbeil Cornboat, which used to come twice a-day, with
      its Plaster-of-Paris meal, now comes only once. And the Townhall
      is deaf; and the men are laggard and dastard!—At the Café de Foy,
      this Saturday evening, a new thing is seen, not the last of its
      kind: a woman engaged in public speaking. Her poor man, she says,
      was put to silence by his District; their Presidents and
      Officials would not let him speak. Wherefore she here with her
      shrill tongue will speak; denouncing, while her breath endures,
      the Corbeil-Boat, the Plaster-of-Paris bread, sacrilegious
      Opera-dinners, green uniforms, Pirate Aristocrats, and those
      black cockades of theirs!—

      Truly, it is time for the black cockades at least, to vanish.
      Them Patrollotism itself will not protect. Nay, sharp-tempered
      “M. Tassin,” at the Tuileries parade on Sunday morning, forgets
      all National military rule; starts from the ranks, wrenches down
      one black cockade which is swashing ominous there; and tramples
      it fiercely into the soil of France. Patrollotism itself is not
      without suppressed fury. Also the Districts begin to stir; the
      voice of President Danton reverberates in the Cordeliers:
      People’s-Friend Marat has flown to Versailles and back
      again;—swart bird, not of the halcyon kind![232]

      And so Patriot meets promenading Patriot, this Sunday; and sees
      his own grim care reflected on the face of another. Groups, in
      spite of Patrollotism, which is not so alert as usual, fluctuate
      deliberative: groups on the Bridges, on the Quais, at the
      patriotic Cafés. And ever as any black cockade may emerge, rises
      the many-voiced growl and bark: _À bas_, Down! All black cockades
      are ruthlessly plucked off: one individual picks his up again;
      kisses it, attempts to refix it; but a “hundred canes start into
      the air,” and he desists. Still worse went it with another
      individual; doomed, by extempore _Plebiscitum_, to the Lanterne;
      saved, with difficulty, by some active
      _Corps-de-Garde_.—Lafayette sees signs of an effervescence; which
      he doubles his Patrols, doubles his diligence, to prevent. So
      passes Sunday, the 4th of October 1789.

      Sullen is the male heart, repressed by Patrollotism; vehement is
      the female, irrepressible. The public-speaking woman at the
      Palais Royal was not the only speaking one:—Men know not what the
      pantry is, when it grows empty, only house-mothers know. O women,
      wives of men that will only calculate and not act! Patrollotism
      is strong; but Death, by starvation and military onfall, is
      stronger. Patrollotism represses male Patriotism: but female
      Patriotism? Will Guards named National thrust their bayonets into
      the bosoms of women? Such thought, or rather such dim unshaped
      raw-material of a thought, ferments universally under the female
      night-cap; and, by earliest daybreak, on slight hint, will
      explode.


      Chapter 1.7.IV.
      The Menads.

      If Voltaire once, in splenetic humour, asked his countrymen: ‘But
      you, _Gualches_, what have you invented?’ they can now answer:
      The Art of Insurrection. It was an art needed in these last
      singular times: an art, for which the French nature, so full of
      vehemence, so free from depth, was perhaps of all others the
      fittest.

      Accordingly, to what a height, one may well say of perfection,
      has this branch of human industry been carried by France, within
      the last half-century! Insurrection, which, Lafayette thought,
      might be “the most sacred of duties,” ranks now, for the French
      people, among the duties which they can perform. Other mobs are
      dull masses; which roll onwards with a dull fierce tenacity, a
      dull fierce heat, but emit no light-flashes of genius as they go.
      The French mob, again, is among the liveliest phenomena of our
      world. So rapid, audacious; so clear-sighted, inventive, prompt
      to seize the moment; instinct with life to its finger-ends! That
      talent, were there no other, of spontaneously standing in queue,
      distinguishes, as we said, the French People from all Peoples,
      ancient and modern.

      Let the Reader confess too that, taking one thing with another,
      perhaps few terrestrial Appearances are better worth considering
      than mobs. Your mob is a genuine outburst of Nature; issuing
      from, or communicating with, the deepest deep of Nature. When so
      much goes grinning and grimacing as a lifeless Formality, and
      under the stiff buckram no heart can be felt beating, here once
      more, if nowhere else, is a Sincerity and Reality. Shudder at it;
      or even shriek over it, if thou must; nevertheless consider it.
      Such a Complex of human Forces and Individualities hurled forth,
      in their transcendental mood, to act and react, on circumstances
      and on one another; to work out what it is in them to work. The
      thing they will do is known to no man; least of all to
      themselves. It is the inflammablest immeasurable Fire-work,
      generating, consuming itself. With what phases, to what extent,
      with what results it will burn off, Philosophy and Perspicacity
      conjecture in vain.

      “Man,” as has been written, “is for ever interesting to man; nay
      properly there is nothing else interesting.” In which light also,
      may we not discern why most Battles have become so wearisome?
      Battles, in these ages, are transacted by mechanism; with the
      slightest possible developement of human individuality or
      spontaneity: men now even die, and kill one another, in an
      artificial manner. Battles ever since Homer’s time, when they
      were Fighting Mobs, have mostly ceased to be worth looking at,
      worth reading of, or remembering. How many wearisome bloody
      Battles does History strive to represent; or even, in a husky
      way, to sing:—and she would omit or carelessly slur-over this one
      Insurrection of Women?

      A thought, or dim raw-material of a thought, was fermenting all
      night, universally in the female head, and might explode. In
      squalid garret, on Monday morning, Maternity awakes, to hear
      children weeping for bread. Maternity must forth to the streets,
      to the herb-markets and Bakers’—queues; meets there with
      hunger-stricken Maternity, sympathetic, exasperative. O we
      unhappy women! But, instead of Bakers’-queues, why not to
      Aristocrats’ palaces, the root of the matter? _Allons!_ Let us
      assemble. To the Hôtel-de-Ville; to Versailles; to the Lanterne!

      In one of the Guardhouses of the Quartier Saint-Eustache, “a
      young woman” seizes a drum,—for how shall National Guards give
      fire on women, on a young woman? The young woman seizes the drum;
      sets forth, beating it, “uttering cries relative to the dearth of
      grains.” Descend, O mothers; descend, ye Judiths, to food and
      revenge!—All women gather and go; crowds storm all stairs, force
      out all women: the female Insurrectionary Force, according to
      Camille, resembles the English Naval one; there is a universal
      “Press of women.” Robust Dames of the Halle, slim Mantua-makers,
      assiduous, risen with the dawn; ancient Virginity tripping to
      matins; the Housemaid, with early broom; all must go. Rouse ye, O
      women; the laggard men will not act; they say, we ourselves may
      act!

      And so, like snowbreak from the mountains, for every staircase is
      a melted brook, it storms; tumultuous, wild-shrilling, towards
      the Hôtel-de-Ville. Tumultuous, with or without drum-music: for
      the Faubourg Saint-Antoine also has tucked up its gown; and, with
      besom-staves, fire-irons, and even rusty pistols (void of
      ammunition), is flowing on. Sound of it flies, with a velocity of
      sound, to the outmost Barriers. By seven o’clock, on this raw
      October morning, fifth of the month, the Townhall will see
      wonders. Nay, as chance would have it, a male party are already
      there; clustering tumultuously round some National Patrol, and a
      Baker who has been seized with short weights. They are there; and
      have even lowered the rope of the Lanterne. So that the official
      persons have to smuggle forth the short-weighing Baker by back
      doors, and even send “to all the Districts” for more force.

      Grand it was, says Camille, to see so many Judiths, from eight to
      ten thousand of them in all, rushing out to search into the root
      of the matter! Not unfrightful it must have been;
      ludicro-terrific, and most unmanageable. At such hour the
      overwatched Three Hundred are not yet stirring: none but some
      Clerks, a company of National Guards; and M. de Gouvion, the
      Major-general. Gouvion has fought in America for the cause of
      civil Liberty; a man of no inconsiderable heart, but deficient in
      head. He is, for the moment, in his back apartment; assuaging
      Usher Maillard, the Bastille-serjeant, who has come, as too many
      do, with “representations.” The assuagement is still incomplete
      when our Judiths arrive.

      The National Guards form on the outer stairs, with levelled
      bayonets; the ten thousand Judiths press up, resistless; with
      obtestations, with outspread hands,—merely to speak to the Mayor.
      The rear forces them; nay, from male hands in the rear, stones
      already fly: the National Guards must do one of two things; sweep
      the Place de Grève with cannon, or else open to right and left.
      They open; the living deluge rushes in. Through all rooms and
      cabinets, upwards to the topmost belfry: ravenous; seeking arms,
      seeking Mayors, seeking justice;—while, again, the better-cressed
      (dressed?) speak kindly to the Clerks; point out the misery of
      these poor women; also their ailments, some even of an
      interesting sort.[233]

      Poor M. de Gouvion is shiftless in this extremity;—a man
      shiftless, perturbed; who will one day commit suicide. How happy
      for him that Usher Maillard, the shifty, was there, at the
      moment, though making representations! Fly back, thou shifty
      Maillard; seek the Bastille Company; and O return fast with it;
      above all, with thy own shifty head! For, behold, the Judiths can
      find no Mayor or Municipal; scarcely, in the topmost belfry, can
      they find poor Abbé Lefevre the Powder-distributor. Him, for want
      of a better, they suspend there; in the pale morning light; over
      the top of all Paris, which swims in one’s failing eyes:—a
      horrible end? Nay, the rope broke, as French ropes often did; or
      else an Amazon cut it. Abbé Lefevre falls, some twenty feet,
      rattling among the leads; and lives long years after, though
      always with “a _tremblement_ in the limbs.”[234]

      And now doors fly under hatchets; the Judiths have broken the
      Armoury; have seized guns and cannons, three money-bags,
      paper-heaps; torches flare: in few minutes, our brave
      Hôtel-de-Ville which dates from the Fourth Henry, will, with all
      that it holds, be in flames!


      Chapter 1.7.V.
      Usher Maillard.

      In flames, truly,—were it not that Usher Maillard, swift of foot,
      shifty of head, has returned!

      Maillard, of his own motion, for Gouvion or the rest would not
      even sanction him,—snatches a drum; descends the Porch-stairs,
      ran-tan, beating sharp, with loud rolls, his Rogues’-march: To
      Versailles! _Allons; a Versailles!_ As men beat on kettle or
      warmingpan, when angry she-bees, or say, flying desperate wasps,
      are to be hived; and the desperate insects hear it, and cluster
      round it,—simply as round a guidance, where there was none: so
      now these Menads round shifty Maillard, Riding-Usher of the
      Châtelet. The axe pauses uplifted; Abbé Lefevre is left
      half-hanged; from the belfry downwards all vomits itself. What
      rub-a-dub is that? Stanislas Maillard, Bastille-hero, will lead
      us to Versailles? Joy to thee, Maillard; blessed art thou above
      Riding-Ushers! Away then, away!

      The seized cannon are yoked with seized cart-horses: brown-locked
      Demoiselle Théroigne, with pike and helmet, sits there as
      gunneress, “with haughty eye and serene fair countenance;”
      comparable, some think, to the _Maid_ of Orléans, or even
      recalling “the idea of Pallas Athene.”[235] Maillard (for his
      drum still rolls) is, by heaven-rending acclamation, admitted
      General. Maillard hastens the languid march. Maillard, beating
      rhythmic, with sharp ran-tan, all along the Quais, leads forward,
      with difficulty his Menadic host. Such a host—marched not in
      silence! The bargeman pauses on the River; all wagoners and
      coachdrivers fly; men peer from windows,—not women, lest they be
      pressed. Sight of sights: Bacchantes, in these ultimate
      Formalized Ages! Bronze Henri looks on, from his Pont-Neuf; the
      Monarchic Louvre, Medicean Tuileries see a day not theretofore
      seen.

      And now Maillard has his Menads in the _Champs Elysées_ (Fields
      _Tartarean_ rather); and the Hôtel-de-Ville has suffered
      comparatively nothing. Broken doors; an Abbé Lefevre, who shall
      never more distribute powder; three sacks of money, most part of
      which (for Sansculottism, though famishing, is not without
      honour) shall be returned:[236] this is all the damage. Great
      Maillard! A small nucleus of Order is round his drum; but his
      outskirts fluctuate like the mad Ocean: for Rascality male and
      female is flowing in on him, from the four winds; guidance there
      is none but in his single head and two drumsticks.

      O Maillard, when, since War first was, had General of Force such
      a task before him, as thou this day? Walter the Penniless still
      touches the feeling heart: but then Walter had sanction; had
      space to turn in; and also his Crusaders were of the male sex.
      Thou, this day, disowned of Heaven and Earth, art General of
      Menads. Their inarticulate frenzy thou must on the spur of the
      instant, render into articulate words, into actions that are not
      frantic. Fail in it, this way or that! Pragmatical Officiality,
      with its penalties and law-books, waits before thee; Menads storm
      behind. If such hewed off the melodious head of Orpheus, and
      hurled it into the Peneus waters, what may they not make of
      thee,—thee rhythmic merely, with no music but a sheepskin
      drum!—Maillard did not fail. Remarkable Maillard, if fame were
      not an accident, and History a distillation of Rumour, how
      remarkable wert thou!

      On the Elysian Fields, there is pause and fluctuation; but, for
      Maillard, no return. He persuades his Menads, clamorous for arms
      and the Arsenal, that no arms are in the Arsenal; that an unarmed
      attitude, and petition to a National Assembly, will be the best:
      he hastily nominates or sanctions generalesses, captains of tens
      and fifties;—and so, in loosest-flowing order, to the rhythm of
      some “eight drums” (having laid aside his own), with the Bastille
      Volunteers bringing up his rear, once more takes the road.

      Chaillot, which will promptly yield baked loaves, is not
      plundered; nor are the Sèvres Potteries broken. The old arches of
      Sèvres Bridge echo under Menadic feet; Seine River gushes on with
      his perpetual murmur; and Paris flings after us the boom of
      tocsin and alarm-drum,—inaudible, for the present, amid
      shrill-sounding hosts, and the splash of rainy weather. To
      Meudon, to Saint Cloud, on both hands, the report of them is gone
      abroad; and hearths, this evening, will have a topic. The press
      of women still continues, for it is the cause of all Eve’s
      Daughters, mothers that are, or that hope to be. No
      carriage-lady, were it with never such hysterics, but must
      dismount, in the mud roads, in her silk shoes, and walk.[237] In
      this manner, amid wild October weather, they a wild unwinged
      stork-flight, through the astonished country, wend their way.
      Travellers of all sorts they stop; especially travellers or
      couriers from Paris. Deputy Lechapelier, in his elegant vesture,
      from his elegant vehicle, looks forth amazed through his
      spectacles; apprehensive for life;—states eagerly that he is
      Patriot-Deputy Lechapelier, and even Old-President Lechapelier,
      who presided on the Night of Pentecost, and is original member of
      the Breton Club. Thereupon “rises huge shout of _Vive
      Lechapelier_, and several armed persons spring up behind and
      before to escort him.”[238]

      Nevertheless, news, despatches from Lafayette, or vague noise of
      rumour, have pierced through, by side roads. In the National
      Assembly, while all is busy discussing the order of the day;
      regretting that there should be Anti-national Repasts in
      Opera-Halls; that his Majesty should still hesitate about
      accepting the Rights of Man, and hang conditions and
      peradventures on them,—Mirabeau steps up to the President,
      experienced Mounier as it chanced to be; and articulates, in bass
      under-tone: ‘_Mounier, Paris marche sur nous_ (Paris is marching
      on us).’—‘May be (_Je n’en sais rien_)!’—‘Believe it or
      disbelieve it, that is not my concern; but Paris, I say, is
      marching on us. Fall suddenly unwell; go over to the Château;
      tell them this. There is not a moment to lose.’—‘Paris marching
      on us?’ responds Mounier, with an atrabiliar accent, ‘Well, so
      much the better! We shall the sooner be a Republic.’ Mirabeau
      quits him, as one quits an experienced President getting
      blindfold into deep waters; and the order of the day continues as
      before.

      Yes, Paris is marching on us; and more than the women of Paris!
      Scarcely was Maillard gone, when M. de Gouvion’s message to all
      the Districts, and such tocsin and drumming of the _générale_,
      began to take effect. Armed National Guards from every District;
      especially the Grenadiers of the Centre, who are our old Gardes
      Françaises, arrive, in quick sequence, on the Place de Grève. An
      “immense people” is there; Saint-Antoine, with pike and rusty
      firelock, is all crowding thither, be it welcome or unwelcome.
      The Centre Grenadiers are received with cheering: ‘it is not
      cheers that we want,’ answer they gloomily; ‘the nation has been
      insulted; to arms, and come with us for orders!’ Ha, sits the
      wind _so?_ Patriotism and Patrollotism are now one!

      The Three Hundred have assembled; “all the Committees are in
      activity;” Lafayette is dictating despatches for Versailles, when
      a Deputation of the Centre Grenadiers introduces itself to him.
      The Deputation makes military obeisance; and thus speaks, not
      without a kind of thought in it: ‘_Mon Général_, we are deputed
      by the Six Companies of Grenadiers. We do not think you a
      traitor, but we think the Government betrays you; it is time that
      this end. We cannot turn our bayonets against women crying to us
      for bread. The people are miserable, the source of the mischief
      is at Versailles: we must go seek the King, and bring him to
      Paris. We must exterminate (_exterminer_) the _Regiment de
      Flandre_ and the _Gardes-du-Corps_, who have dared to trample on
      the National Cockade. If the King be too weak to wear his crown,
      let him lay it down. You will crown his Son, you will name a
      Council of Regency; and all will go better.’[239] Reproachful
      astonishment paints itself on the face of Lafayette; speaks
      itself from his eloquent chivalrous lips: in vain. ‘My General,
      we would shed the last drop of our blood for you; but the root of
      the mischief is at Versailles; we must go and bring the King to
      Paris; all the people wish it, _tout le peuple le veut_.’

      My General descends to the outer staircase; and harangues: once
      more in vain. ‘To Versailles! To Versailles!’ Mayor Bailly, sent
      for through floods of Sansculottism, attempts academic oratory
      from his gilt state-coach; realizes nothing but infinite hoarse
      cries of: ‘Bread! To Versailles!’—and gladly shrinks within
      doors. Lafayette mounts the white charger; and again harangues
      and reharangues: with eloquence, with firmness, indignant
      demonstration; with all things but persuasion. ‘To Versailles! To
      Versailles!’ So lasts it, hour after hour; for the space of half
      a day.

      The great Scipio Americanus can do nothing; not so much as
      escape. ‘_Morbleu, mon Général_,’ cry the Grenadiers serrying
      their ranks as the white charger makes a motion that way, ‘You
      will not leave us, you will abide with us!’ A perilous juncture:
      Mayor Bailly and the Municipals sit quaking within doors; My
      General is prisoner without: the Place de Grève, with its thirty
      thousand Regulars, its whole irregular Saint-Antoine and
      Saint-Marceau, is one minatory mass of clear or rusty steel; all
      hearts set, with a moody fixedness, on one object. Moody, fixed
      are all hearts: tranquil is no heart,—if it be not that of the
      white charger, who paws there, with arched neck, composedly
      champing his bit; as if no world, with its Dynasties and Eras,
      were now rushing down. The drizzly day tends westward; the cry is
      still: ‘To Versailles!’

      Nay now, borne from afar, come quite sinister cries; hoarse,
      reverberating in longdrawn hollow murmurs, with syllables too
      like those of _Lanterne!_ Or else, irregular Sansculottism may be
      marching off, of itself; with pikes, nay with cannon. The
      inflexible Scipio does at length, by aide-de-camp, ask of the
      Municipals: Whether or not he may go? A Letter is handed out to
      him, over armed heads; sixty thousand faces flash fixedly on his,
      there is stillness and no bosom breathes, till he have read. By
      Heaven, he grows suddenly pale! Do the Municipals permit? “Permit
      and even order,”—since he can no other. Clangour of approval
      rends the welkin. To your ranks, then; let us march!

      It is, as we compute, towards three in the afternoon. Indignant
      National Guards may dine for once from their haversack: dined or
      undined, they march with one heart. Paris flings up her windows,
      claps hands, as the Avengers, with their shrilling drums and
      shalms tramp by; she will then sit pensive, apprehensive, and
      pass rather a sleepless night.[240] On the white charger,
      Lafayette, in the slowest possible manner, going and coming, and
      eloquently haranguing among the ranks, rolls onward with his
      thirty thousand. Saint-Antoine, with pike and cannon, has
      preceded him; a mixed multitude, of all and of no arms, hovers on
      his flanks and skirts; the country once more pauses agape: _Paris
      marche sur nous_.


      Chapter 1.7.VI.
      To Versailles.

      For, indeed, about this same moment, Maillard has halted his
      draggled Menads on the last hill-top; and now Versailles, and the
      Château of Versailles, and far and wide the inheritance of
      Royalty opens to the wondering eye. From far on the right, over
      Marly and Saint-Germains-en-Laye; round towards Rambouillet, on
      the left: beautiful all; softly embosomed; as if in sadness, in
      the dim moist weather! And near before us is Versailles, New and
      Old; with that broad frondent _Avenue de Versailles_
      between,—stately-frondent, broad, three hundred feet as men
      reckon, with four Rows of Elms; and then the _Château de
      Versailles_, ending in royal Parks and Pleasances, gleaming
      lakelets, arbours, Labyrinths, the _Ménagerie_, and Great and
      Little Trianon. High-towered dwellings, leafy pleasant places;
      where the gods of this lower world abide: whence, nevertheless,
      black Care cannot be excluded; whither Menadic Hunger is even now
      advancing, armed with pike-thyrsi!

      Yes, yonder, Mesdames, where our straight frondent Avenue,
      joined, as you note, by Two frondent brother Avenues from this
      hand and from that, spreads out into Place Royale and Palace
      Forecourt; yonder is the _Salle des Menus_. Yonder an august
      Assembly sits regenerating France. Forecourt, Grand Court, Court
      of Marble, Court narrowing into Court you may discern next, or
      fancy: on the extreme verge of which that glass-dome, visibly
      glittering like a star of hope, is the—Œil-de-Bœuf! Yonder, or
      nowhere in the world, is bread baked for us. But, O Mesdames,
      were not one thing good: That our cannons, with Demoiselle
      Théroigne and all show of war, be put to the rear? Submission
      beseems petitioners of a National Assembly; we are strangers in
      Versailles,—whence, too audibly, there comes even now sound as of
      tocsin and _générale!_ Also to put on, if possible, a cheerful
      countenance, hiding our sorrows; and even to sing? Sorrow, pitied
      of the Heavens, is hateful, suspicious to the Earth.—So counsels
      shifty Maillard; haranguing his Menads, on the heights near
      Versailles.[241]

      Cunning Maillard’s dispositions are obeyed. The draggled
      Insurrectionists advance up the Avenue, “in three columns”, among
      the four Elm-rows; “singing _Henri Quatre_,” with what melody
      they can; and shouting _Vive le Roi_. Versailles, though the
      Elm-rows are dripping wet, crowds from both sides, with: ‘_Vivent
      nos Parisiennes_, Our Paris ones for ever!’

      Prickers, scouts have been out towards Paris, as the rumour
      deepened: whereby his Majesty, gone to shoot in the Woods of
      Meudon, has been happily discovered, and got home; and the
      _générale_ and tocsin set a-sounding. The Bodyguards are already
      drawn up in front of the Palace Grates; and look down the Avenue
      de Versailles; sulky, in wet buckskins. Flandre too is there,
      repentant of the Opera-Repast. Also Dragoons dismounted are
      there. Finally Major Lecointre, and what he can gather of the
      Versailles National Guard; though, it is to be observed, our
      Colonel, that same sleepless Count d’Estaing, giving neither
      order nor ammunition, has vanished most improperly; one supposes,
      into the Œil-de-Bœuf. Red-coated Swiss stand within the Grates,
      under arms. There likewise, in their inner room, “all the
      Ministers,” Saint-Priest, Lamentation Pompignan and the rest, are
      assembled with M. Necker: they sit with him there; blank,
      expecting what the hour will bring.

      President Mounier, though he answered Mirabeau with a _tant
      mieux_, and affected to slight the matter, had his own
      forebodings. Surely, for these four weary hours, he has reclined
      not on roses! The order of the day is getting forward: a
      Deputation to his Majesty seems proper, that it might please him
      to grant “Acceptance pure and simple” to those
      Constitution-Articles of ours; the “mixed qualified Acceptance,”
      with its peradventures, is satisfactory to neither gods nor men.

      So much is clear. And yet there is more, which no man speaks,
      which all men now vaguely understand. Disquietude, absence of
      mind is on every face; Members whisper, uneasily come and go: the
      order of the day is evidently not the day’s want. Till at length,
      from the outer gates, is heard a rustling and justling, shrill
      uproar and squabbling, muffled by walls; which testifies that the
      hour is come! Rushing and crushing one hears now; then enter
      Usher Maillard, with a Deputation of Fifteen muddy dripping
      Women,—having by incredible industry, and aid of all the macers,
      persuaded the rest to wait out of doors. National Assembly shall
      now, therefore, look its august task directly in the face:
      regenerative Constitutionalism has an unregenerate Sansculottism
      bodily in front of it; crying, ‘Bread! Bread!’

      Shifty Maillard, translating frenzy into articulation; repressive
      with the one hand, expostulative with the other, does his best;
      and really, though not bred to public speaking, manages rather
      well:—In the present dreadful rarity of grains, a Deputation of
      Female Citizens has, as the august Assembly can discern, come out
      from Paris to petition. Plots of Aristocrats are too evident in
      the matter; for example, one miller has been bribed “by a
      banknote of 200 livres” not to grind,—name unknown to the Usher,
      but fact provable, at least indubitable. Further, it seems, the
      National Cockade has been trampled on; also there are Black
      Cockades, or were. All which things will not an august National
      Assembly, the hope of France, take into its wise immediate
      consideration?

      And Menadic Hunger, impressible, crying ‘Black Cockades,’ crying
      ‘Bread, Bread,’ adds, after such fashion: ‘Will it not?—Yes,
      Messieurs, if a Deputation to his Majesty, for the “Acceptance
      pure and simple,” seemed proper,—how much more now, for “the
      afflicting situation of Paris;” for the calming of this
      effervescence!’ President Mounier, with a speedy Deputation,
      among whom we notice the respectable figure of Doctor Guillotin,
      gets himself forthwith on march. Vice-President shall continue
      the order of the day; Usher Maillard shall stay by him to repress
      the women. It is four o’clock, of the miserablest afternoon, when
      Mounier steps out.

      O experienced Mounier, what an afternoon; the last of thy
      political existence! Better had it been to “fall suddenly
      unwell,” while it was yet time. For, behold, the Esplanade, over
      all its spacious expanse, is covered with groups of squalid
      dripping Women; of lankhaired male Rascality, armed with axes,
      rusty pikes, old muskets, ironshod clubs (_batons ferrés_, which
      end in knives or sword-blades, a kind of extempore
      billhook);—looking nothing but hungry revolt. The rain pours:
      Gardes-du-Corps go caracoling through the groups “amid hisses;”
      irritating and agitating what is but dispersed here to reunite
      there.

      Innumerable squalid women beleaguer the President and Deputation;
      insist on going with him: has not his Majesty himself, looking
      from the window, sent out to ask, What we wanted? ‘Bread and
      speech with the King (_Du pain, et parler au Roi_),’ that was the
      answer. Twelve women are clamorously added to the Deputation; and
      march with it, across the Esplanade; through dissipated groups,
      caracoling Bodyguards, and the pouring rain.

      President Mounier, unexpectedly augmented by Twelve Women,
      copiously escorted by Hunger and Rascality, is himself mistaken
      for a group: himself and his Women are dispersed by caracolers;
      rally again with difficulty, among the mud.[242] Finally the
      Grates are opened: the Deputation gets access, with the Twelve
      Women too in it; of which latter, Five shall even see the face of
      his Majesty. Let wet Menadism, in the best spirits it can expect
      their return.


      Chapter 1.7.VII.
      At Versailles.

      But already Pallas Athene (in the shape of Demoiselle Théroigne)
      is busy with Flandre and the dismounted Dragoons. She, and such
      women as are fittest, go through the ranks; speak with an earnest
      jocosity; clasp rough troopers to their patriot bosom, crush down
      spontoons and musketoons with soft arms: can a man, that were
      worthy of the name of man, attack famishing patriot women?

      One reads that Théroigne had bags of money, which she distributed
      over Flandre:—furnished by whom? Alas, with money-bags one seldom
      sits on insurrectionary cannon. Calumnious Royalism! Théroigne
      had only the limited earnings of her profession of
      unfortunate-female; money she had not, but brown locks, the
      figure of a heathen Goddess, and an eloquent tongue and heart.

      Meanwhile, Saint-Antoine, in groups and troops, is continually
      arriving; wetted, sulky; with pikes and impromptu billhooks:
      driven thus far by popular fixed-idea. So many hirsute figures
      driven hither, in that manner: figures that have come to do they
      know not what; figures that have come to see it done!
      Distinguished among all figures, who is this, of gaunt stature,
      with leaden breastplate, though a small one;[243] bushy in red
      grizzled locks; nay, with long tile-beard? It is Jourdan, unjust
      dealer in mules; a dealer no longer, but a Painter’s Layfigure,
      playing truant this day. From the necessities of Art comes his
      long tile-beard; whence his leaden breastplate (unless indeed he
      were some Hawker licensed by leaden badge) may have come,—will
      perhaps remain for ever a Historical Problem. Another Saul among
      the people we discern: “_Père Adam_, Father Adam,” as the groups
      name him; to us better known as bull-voiced Marquis Saint-Huruge;
      hero of the _Veto;_ a man that has had losses, and deserved them.
      The tall Marquis, emitted some days ago from limbo, looks
      peripatetically on this scene, from under his umbrella, not
      without interest. All which persons and things, hurled together
      as we see; Pallas Athene, busy with Flandre; patriotic Versailles
      National Guards, short of ammunition, and deserted by d’Estaing
      their Colonel, and commanded by Lecointre their Major; then
      caracoling Bodyguards, sour, dispirited, with their buckskins
      wet; and finally this flowing sea of indignant Squalor,—may they
      not give rise to occurrences?

      Behold, however, the Twelve She-deputies return from the Château.
      Without President Mounier, indeed; but radiant with joy, shouting
      ‘_Life to the King and his House_.’ Apparently the news are good,
      Mesdames? News of the best! Five of us were admitted to the
      internal splendours, to the Royal Presence. This slim damsel,
      “Louison Chabray, worker in sculpture, aged only seventeen,” as
      being of the best looks and address, her we appointed speaker. On
      whom, and indeed on all of us, his Majesty looked nothing but
      graciousness. Nay, when Louison, addressing him, was like to
      faint, he took her in his royal arms; and said gallantly, ‘It was
      well worth while (_Elle en valût bien la peine_).’ Consider, O
      women, what a King! His words were of comfort, and that only:
      there shall be provision sent to Paris, if provision is in the
      world; grains shall circulate free as air; millers shall grind,
      or do worse, while their millstones endure; and nothing be left
      wrong which a Restorer of French Liberty can right.

      Good news these; but, to wet Menads, all too incredible! There
      seems no proof, then? _Words_ of comfort are words only; which
      will feed nothing. O miserable people, betrayed by Aristocrats,
      who corrupt thy very messengers! In his royal arms, Mademoiselle
      Louison? In his arms? Thou shameless minx, worthy of a name—that
      shall be nameless! Yes, thy skin is soft: ours is rough with
      hardship; and well wetted, waiting here in the rain. No children
      hast thou hungry at home; only alabaster dolls, that weep not!
      The traitress! To the Lanterne!—And so poor Louison Chabray, no
      asseveration or shrieks availing her, fair slim damsel, late in
      the arms of Royalty, has a garter round her neck, and furibund
      Amazons at each end; is about to perish so,—when two Bodyguards
      gallop up, indignantly dissipating; and rescue her. The
      miscredited Twelve hasten back to the Château, for an “answer in
      writing.”

      Nay, behold, a new flight of Menads, with “M. Brunout Bastille
      Volunteer,” as impressed-commandant, at the head of it. These
      also will advance to the Grate of the Grand Court, and see what
      is toward. Human patience, in wet buckskins, has its limits.
      Bodyguard Lieutenant, M. de Savonnières, for one moment, lets his
      temper, long provoked, long pent, give way. He not only
      dissipates these latter Menads; but caracoles and cuts, or
      indignantly flourishes, at M. Brunout, the impressed-commandant;
      and, finding great relief in it, even chases him; Brunout flying
      nimbly, though in a pirouette manner, and now with sword also
      drawn. At which sight of wrath and victory two other Bodyguards
      (for wrath is contagious, and to pent Bodyguards is so solacing)
      do likewise give way; give chase, with brandished sabre, and in
      the air make horrid circles. So that poor Brunout has nothing for
      it but to retreat with accelerated nimbleness, through rank after
      rank; Parthian-like, fencing as he flies; above all, shouting
      lustily, ‘_On nous laisse assassiner_, They are getting us
      assassinated?’

      Shameful! Three against one! Growls come from the Lecointrian
      ranks; bellowings,—lastly shots. Savonnières” arm is raised to
      strike: the bullet of a Lecointrian musket shatters it; the
      brandished sabre jingles down harmless. Brunout has escaped, this
      duel well ended: but the wild howl of war is everywhere beginning
      to pipe!

      The Amazons recoil; Saint-Antoine has its cannon pointed (full of
      grapeshot); thrice applies the lit flambeau; which thrice refuses
      to catch,—the touchholes are so wetted; and voices cry:
      ‘_Arrêtez, il n’est pas temps encore_, Stop, it is not yet
      time!’[244] Messieurs of the Garde-du-Corps, ye had orders not to
      fire; nevertheless two of you limp dismounted, and one war-horse
      lies slain. Were it not well to draw back out of shot-range;
      finally to file off,—into the interior? If in so filing off,
      there did a musketoon or two discharge itself, at these armed
      shopkeepers, hooting and crowing, could man wonder? Draggled are
      your white cockades of an enormous size; would to Heaven they
      were got exchanged for tricolor ones! Your buckskins are wet,
      your hearts heavy. Go, and return not!

      The Bodyguards file off, as we hint; giving and receiving shots;
      drawing no life-blood; leaving boundless indignation. Some three
      times in the thickening dusk, a glimpse of them is seen, at this
      or the other Portal: saluted always with execrations, with the
      whew of lead. Let but a Bodyguard shew face, he is hunted by
      Rascality;—for instance, poor “M. de Moucheton of the Scotch
      Company,” owner of the slain war-horse; and has to be smuggled
      off by Versailles Captains. Or rusty firelocks belch after him,
      shivering asunder his—hat. In the end, by superior Order, the
      Bodyguards, all but the few on immediate duty, disappear; or as
      it were abscond; and march, under cloud of night, to
      Rambouillet.[245]

      We remark also that the Versaillese have now got ammunition: all
      afternoon, the official Person could find none; till, in these so
      critical moments, a patriotic Sublieutenant set a pistol to his
      ear, and would thank him to find some,—which he thereupon
      succeeded in doing. Likewise that Flandre, disarmed by Pallas
      Athene, says openly, it will not fight with citizens; and for
      token of peace, has exchanged cartridges with the Versaillese.

      Sansculottism is now among mere friends; and can “circulate
      freely;” indignant at Bodyguards;—complaining also considerably
      of hunger.


      Chapter 1.7.VIII.
      The Equal Diet.

      But why lingers Mounier; returns not with his Deputation? It is
      six, it is seven o’clock; and still no Mounier, no Acceptance
      pure and simple.

      And, behold, the dripping Menads, not now in deputation but in
      mass, have penetrated into the Assembly: to the shamefullest
      interruption of public speaking and order of the day. Neither
      Maillard nor Vice-President can restrain them, except within wide
      limits; not even, except for minutes, can the lion-voice of
      Mirabeau, though they applaud it: but ever and anon they break in
      upon the regeneration of France with cries of: ‘Bread; not so
      much discoursing! _Du pain; pas tant de longs discours!_’—So
      insensible were these poor creatures to bursts of Parliamentary
      eloquence!

      One learns also that the royal Carriages are getting yoked, as if
      for Metz. Carriages, royal or not, have verily showed themselves
      at the back Gates. They even produced, or quoted, a written order
      from our Versailles Municipality,—which is a Monarchic not a
      Democratic one. However, Versailles Patroles drove them in again;
      as the vigilant Lecointre had strictly charged them to do.

      A busy man, truly, is Major Lecointre, in these hours. For
      Colonel d’Estaing loiters invisible in the Œil-de-Bœuf;
      invisible, or still more questionably _visible_, for instants:
      then also a too loyal Municipality requires supervision: no
      order, civil or military, taken about any of these thousand
      things! Lecointre is at the Versailles Townhall: he is at the
      Grate of the Grand Court; communing with Swiss and Bodyguards. He
      is in the ranks of Flandre; he is here, he is there: studious to
      prevent bloodshed; to prevent the Royal Family from flying to
      Metz; the Menads from plundering Versailles.

      At the fall of night, we behold him advance to those armed groups
      of Saint-Antoine, hovering all-too grim near the Salle des Menus.
      They receive him in a half-circle; twelve speakers behind
      cannons, with lighted torches in hand, the cannon-mouths
      _towards_ Lecointre: a picture for Salvator! He asks, in
      temperate but courageous language: What they, by this their
      journey to Versailles, do specially want? The twelve speakers
      reply, in few words inclusive of much: ‘Bread, and the end of
      these brabbles, _Du pain, et la fin des affaires_.’ When the
      _affairs_ will end, no Major Lecointre, nor no mortal, can say;
      but as to bread, he inquires, How many are you?—learns that they
      are six hundred, that a loaf each will suffice; and rides off to
      the Municipality to get six hundred loaves.

      Which loaves, however, a Municipality of Monarchic temper will
      not give. It will give two tons of rice rather,—could you but
      know whether it should be boiled or raw. Nay when this too is
      accepted, the Municipals have disappeared;—ducked under, as the
      Six-and-Twenty Long-gowned of Paris did; and, leaving not the
      smallest vestage of rice, in the boiled or raw state, they there
      vanish from History!

      Rice comes not; one’s hope of food is baulked; even one’s hope of
      vengeance: is not M. de Moucheton of the Scotch Company, as we
      said, deceitfully smuggled off? Failing all which, behold only M.
      de Moucheton’s slain warhorse, lying on the Esplanade there!
      Saint-Antoine, baulked, esurient, pounces on the slain warhorse;
      flays it; roasts it, with such fuel, of paling, gates, portable
      timber as can be come at,—not without shouting: and, after the
      manner of ancient Greek Heroes, _they lifted their hands to the
      daintily readied repast;_ such as it might be.[246] Other
      Rascality prowls discursive; seeking what it may devour. Flandre
      will retire to its barracks; Lecointre also with his
      Versaillese,—all but the vigilant Patrols, charged to be doubly
      vigilant.

      So sink the shadows of Night, blustering, rainy; and all paths
      grow dark. Strangest Night ever seen in these regions,—perhaps
      since the Bartholomew Night, when Versailles, as Bassompierre
      writes of it, was a _chétif château_. O for the Lyre of some
      Orpheus, to constrain, with touch of melodious strings, these mad
      masses into Order! For here all seems fallen asunder, in
      wide-yawning dislocation. The highest, as in down-rushing of a
      World, is come in contact with the lowest: the Rascality of
      France beleaguering the Royalty of France; “ironshod batons”
      lifted round the diadem, not to guard it! With denunciations of
      bloodthirsty Anti-national Bodyguards, are heard dark growlings
      against a Queenly Name.

      The Court sits tremulous, powerless; varies with the varying
      temper of the Esplanade, with the varying colour of the rumours
      from Paris. Thick-coming rumours; now of peace, now of war.
      Necker and all the Ministers consult; with a blank issue. The
      Œil-de-Bœuf is one tempest of whispers:—We will fly to Metz; we
      will not fly. The royal Carriages again attempt egress;—though
      for trial merely; they are again driven in by Lecointre’s
      Patrols. In six hours, nothing has been resolved on; not even the
      Acceptance pure and simple.

      In six hours? Alas, he who, in such circumstances, cannot resolve
      in six minutes, may give up the enterprise: him Fate has already
      resolved for. And Menadism, meanwhile, and Sansculottism takes
      counsel with the National Assembly; grows more and more
      tumultuous there. Mounier returns not; Authority nowhere shews
      itself: the Authority of France lies, for the present, with
      Lecointre and Usher Maillard.—This then is the abomination of
      desolation; come suddenly, though long foreshadowed as
      inevitable! For, to the blind, all things are sudden. Misery
      which, through long ages, had no spokesman, no helper, will now
      be its own helper and speak for itself. The dialect, one of the
      rudest, is, what it could be, _this_.

      At eight o’clock there returns to our Assembly not the
      Deputation; but Doctor Guillotin announcing that it will return;
      also that there is hope of the Acceptance pure and simple. He
      himself has brought a Royal Letter, authorising and commanding
      the freest “circulation of grains.” Which Royal Letter Menadism
      with its whole heart applauds. Conformably to which the Assembly
      forthwith passes a Decree; also received with rapturous Menadic
      plaudits:—Only could not an august Assembly contrive further to
      ‘_fix_ the price of bread at eight sous the half-quartern;
      butchers’-meat at six sous the pound;’ which seem fair rates?
      Such motion do “a multitude of men and women,” irrepressible by
      Usher Maillard, now make; does an august Assembly hear made.
      Usher Maillard himself is not always perfectly measured in
      speech; but if rebuked, he can justly excuse himself by the
      peculiarity of the circumstances.[247]

      But finally, this Decree well passed, and the disorder
      continuing; and Members melting away, and no President Mounier
      returning,—what can the Vice-President do but also melt away? The
      Assembly melts, under such pressure, into deliquium; or, as it is
      officially called, adjourns. Maillard is despatched to Paris,
      with the “Decree concerning Grains” in his pocket; he and some
      women, in carriages belonging to the King. Thitherward slim
      Louison Chabray has already set forth, with that “written
      answer,” which the Twelve She-deputies returned in to seek. Slim
      sylph, she has set forth, through the black muddy country: she
      has much to tell, her poor nerves so flurried; and travels, as
      indeed today on this road all persons do, with extreme slowness.
      President Mounier has not come, nor the Acceptance pure and
      simple; though six hours with their events have come; though
      courier on courier reports that Lafayette is coming. Coming, with
      war or with peace? It is time that the Château also should
      determine on one thing or another; that the Château also should
      show itself alive, if it would continue living!

      Victorious, joyful after such delay, Mounier does arrive at last,
      and the hard-earned Acceptance with him; which now, alas, is of
      small value. Fancy Mounier’s surprise to find his Senate, whom he
      hoped to charm by the Acceptance pure and simple,—all gone; and
      in its stead a Senate of Menads! For as Erasmus’s Ape mimicked,
      say with wooden splint, Erasmus shaving, so do these Amazons
      hold, in mock majesty, some confused parody of National Assembly.
      They make motions; deliver speeches; pass enactments; productive
      at least of loud laughter. All galleries and benches are filled;
      a strong Dame of the Market is in Mounier’s Chair. Not without
      difficulty, Mounier, by aid of macers, and persuasive speaking,
      makes his way to the Female-President: the Strong Dame before
      abdicating signifies that, for one thing, she and indeed her
      whole senate male and female (for what was one roasted warhorse
      among so many?) are suffering very considerably from hunger.

      Experienced Mounier, in these circumstances, takes a twofold
      resolution: To reconvoke his Assembly Members by sound of drum;
      also to procure a supply of food. Swift messengers fly, to all
      bakers, cooks, pastrycooks, vintners, restorers; drums beat,
      accompanied with shrill vocal proclamation, through all streets.
      They come: the Assembly Members come; what is still better, the
      provisions come. On tray and barrow come these latter; loaves,
      wine, great store of sausages. The nourishing baskets circulate
      harmoniously along the benches; nor, according to the Father of
      Epics, _did any soul lack a fair share of victual_ (δαῖτος
      ὲἱσης), _an equal diet_); highly desirable, at the moment.[248]

      Gradually some hundred or so of Assembly members get edged in,
      Menadism making way a little, round Mounier’s Chair; listen to
      the Acceptance pure and simple; and begin, what is the order of
      the night, “discussion of the Penal Code.” All benches are
      crowded; in the dusky galleries, duskier with unwashed heads, is
      a strange “coruscation,”—of impromptu billhooks.[249] It is
      exactly five months this day since these same galleries were
      filled with high-plumed jewelled Beauty, raining bright
      influences; and now? To such length have we got in regenerating
      France. Methinks the travail-throes are of the sharpest!—Menadism
      will not be restrained from occasional remarks; asks, ‘What is
      use of the Penal Code? The thing we want is Bread.’ Mirabeau
      turns round with lion-voiced rebuke; Menadism applauds him; but
      recommences.

      Thus they, chewing tough sausages, discussing the Penal Code,
      make night hideous. What the issue will be? Lafayette with his
      thirty thousand must arrive first: him, who cannot now be
      distant, all men expect, as the messenger of Destiny.


      Chapter 1.7.IX.
      Lafayette.

      Towards midnight lights flare on the hill; Lafayette’s lights!
      The roll of his drums comes up the Avenue de Versailles. With
      peace, or with war? Patience, friends! With neither. Lafayette is
      come, but not yet the catastrophe.

      He has halted and harangued so often, on the march; spent nine
      hours on four leagues of road. At Montreuil, close on Versailles,
      the whole Host had to pause; and, with uplifted right hand, in
      the murk of Night, to these pouring skies, swear solemnly to
      respect the King’s Dwelling; to be faithful to King and National
      Assembly. Rage is driven down out of sight, by the laggard march;
      the thirst of vengeance slaked in weariness and soaking clothes.
      Flandre is again drawn out under arms: but Flandre, grown so
      patriotic, now needs no “exterminating.” The wayworn Batallions
      halt in the Avenue: they have, for the present, no wish so
      pressing as that of shelter and rest.

      Anxious sits President Mounier; anxious the Château. There is a
      message coming from the Château, that M. Mounier would please
      return thither with a fresh Deputation, swiftly; and so at least
      _unite_ our two anxieties. Anxious Mounier does of himself send,
      meanwhile, to apprise the General that his Majesty has been so
      gracious as to grant us the Acceptance pure and simple. The
      General, with a small advance column, makes answer in passing;
      speaks vaguely some smooth words to the National
      President,—glances, only with the eye, at that so mixtiform
      National Assembly; then fares forward towards the Château. There
      are with him two Paris Municipals; they were chosen from the
      Three Hundred for that errand. He gets admittance through the
      locked and padlocked Grates, through sentries and ushers, to the
      Royal Halls.

      The Court, male and female, crowds on his passage, to read their
      doom on his face; which exhibits, say Historians, a mixture “of
      sorrow, of fervour and valour,” singular to behold.[250] The
      King, with Monsieur, with Ministers and Marshals, is waiting to
      receive him: He ‘is come,’ in his highflown chivalrous way, ‘to
      offer his head for the safety of his Majesty’s.’ The two
      Municipals state the wish of Paris: four things, of quite pacific
      tenor. First, that the honour of Guarding his sacred person be
      conferred on patriot National Guards;—say, the Centre Grenadiers,
      who as Gardes Françaises were wont to have that privilege.
      Second, that provisions be got, if possible. Third, that the
      Prisons, all crowded with political delinquents, may have judges
      sent them. Fourth, _that it would please his Majesty to come and
      live in Paris._ To all which four wishes, except the fourth, his
      Majesty answers readily, Yes; or indeed may almost say that he
      has already answered it. To the fourth he can answer only, Yes or
      No; would so gladly answer, Yes _and_ No!—But, in any case, are
      not their dispositions, thank Heaven, so entirely pacific? There
      is time for deliberation. The brunt of the danger seems past!

      Lafayette and d’Estaing settle the watches; Centre Grenadiers are
      to take the Guard-room they of old occupied as Gardes
      Françaises;—for indeed the Gardes du Corps, its late ill-advised
      occupants, are gone mostly to Rambouillet. That is the order of
      _this_ night; sufficient for the night is the evil thereof.
      Whereupon Lafayette and the two Municipals, with highflown
      chivalry, take their leave.

      So brief has the interview been, Mounier and his Deputation were
      not yet got up. So brief and satisfactory. A stone is rolled from
      every heart. The fair Palace Dames publicly declare that this
      Lafayette, detestable though he be, is their saviour for once.
      Even the ancient vinaigrous _Tantes_ admit it; the King’s Aunts,
      ancient _Graille_ and Sisterhood, known to us of old. Queen
      Marie-Antoinette has been heard often say the like. She alone,
      among all women and all men, wore a face of courage, of lofty
      calmness and resolve, this day. She alone saw clearly what she
      _meant_ to do; and Theresa’s Daughter _dares_ do what she means,
      were all France threatening her: abide where her children are,
      where her husband is.

      Towards three in the morning all things are settled: the watches
      set, the Centre Grenadiers put into their old Guard-room, and
      harangued; the Swiss, and few remaining Bodyguards harangued. The
      wayworn Paris Batallions, consigned to “the hospitality of
      Versailles,” lie dormant in spare-beds, spare-barracks,
      coffeehouses, empty churches. A troop of them, on their way to
      the Church of Saint-Louis, awoke poor Weber, dreaming troublous,
      in the Rue Sartory. Weber has had his waistcoat-pocket full of
      balls all day; “two hundred balls, and two _pears_ of powder!”
      For waistcoats were waistcoats then, and had flaps down to
      mid-thigh. So many balls he has had all day; but no opportunity
      of using them: he turns over now, execrating disloyal bandits;
      swears a prayer or two, and straight to sleep again.

      Finally, the National Assembly is harangued; which thereupon, on
      motion of Mirabeau, discontinues the Penal Code, and dismisses
      for this night. Menadism, Sansculottism has cowered into
      guard-houses, barracks of Flandre, to the light of cheerful fire;
      failing that, to churches, office-houses, sentry-boxes,
      wheresoever wretchedness can find a lair. The troublous Day has
      brawled itself to rest: no lives yet lost but that of one
      warhorse. Insurrectionary Chaos lies slumbering round the Palace,
      like Ocean round a Diving-bell,—no crevice yet disclosing itself.

      Deep sleep has fallen promiscuously on the high and on the low;
      suspending most things, even wrath and famine. Darkness covers
      the Earth. But, far on the North-east, Paris flings up her great
      yellow gleam; far into the wet black Night. For all is
      illuminated there, as in the old July Nights; the streets
      deserted, for alarm of war; the Municipals all wakeful; Patrols
      hailing, with their hoarse _Who-goes_. There, as we discover, our
      poor slim Louison Chabray, her poor nerves all fluttered, is
      arriving about this very hour. There Usher Maillard will arrive,
      about an hour hence, “towards four in the morning.” They report,
      successively, to a wakeful Hôtel-de-Ville what comfort they can
      report; which again, with early dawn, large comfortable Placards,
      shall impart to all men.

      Lafayette, in the Hôtel de Noailles, not far from the Château,
      having now finished haranguing, sits with his Officers
      consulting: at five o’clock the unanimous best counsel is, that a
      man so tost and toiled for twenty-four hours and more, fling
      himself on a bed, and seek some rest.

      Thus, then, has ended the First Act of the Insurrection of Women.
      How it will turn on the morrow? The morrow, as always, is with
      the Fates! But his Majesty, one may hope, will consent to come
      honourably to Paris; at all events, he can visit Paris.
      Anti-national Bodyguards, here and elsewhere, must take the
      National Oath; make reparation to the Tricolor; Flandre will
      swear. There may be much swearing; much public speaking there
      will infallibly be: and so, with harangues and vows, may the
      matter in some handsome way, wind itself up.

      Or, alas, may it not be all otherwise, unhandsome: the consent
      not honourable, but extorted, ignominious? Boundless Chaos of
      Insurrection presses slumbering round the Palace, like Ocean
      round a Diving-bell; and may penetrate at any crevice. Let but
      that accumulated insurrectionary mass find entrance! Like the
      infinite inburst of water; or say rather, of inflammable,
      self-igniting fluid; for example, “turpentine-and-phosphorus
      oil,”—fluid known to Spinola Santerre!


      Chapter 1.7.X.
      The Grand Entries.

      The dull dawn of a new morning, drizzly and chill, had but broken
      over Versailles, when it pleased Destiny that a Bodyguard should
      look out of window, on the right wing of the Château, to see what
      prospect there was in Heaven and in Earth. Rascality male and
      female is prowling in view of him. His fasting stomach is, with
      good cause, sour; he perhaps cannot forbear a passing malison on
      them; least of all can he forbear answering such.

      Ill words breed worse: till the worst word came; and then the ill
      deed. Did the maledicent Bodyguard, getting (as was too
      inevitable) better malediction than he gave, load his musketoon,
      and threaten to fire; and actually fire? Were wise who wist! It
      stands asserted; to us not credibly. Be this as it may, menaced
      Rascality, in whinnying scorn, is shaking at all Grates: the
      fastening of one (some write, it was a chain merely) gives way;
      Rascality is in the Grand Court, whinnying louder still.

      The maledicent Bodyguard, more Bodyguards than he do now give
      fire; a man’s arm is shattered. Lecointre will depose[251] that
      “the Sieur Cardaine, a National Guard without arms, was stabbed.”
      But see, sure enough, poor Jerôme l’Héritier, an unarmed National
      Guard he too, “cabinet-maker, a saddler’s son, of Paris,” with
      the down of youthhood still on his chin,—he reels death-stricken;
      rushes to the pavement, scattering it with his blood and
      brains!—Allelew! Wilder than Irish wakes, rises the howl: of
      pity; of infinite revenge. In few moments, the Grate of the inner
      and inmost Court, which they name Court of Marble, this too is
      forced, or surprised, and burst open: the Court of Marble too is
      overflowed: up the Grand Staircase, up all stairs and entrances
      rushes the living Deluge! Deshuttes and Varigny, the two sentry
      Bodyguards, are trodden down, are massacred with a hundred pikes.
      Women snatch their cutlasses, or any weapon, and storm-in
      Menadic:—other women lift the corpse of shot Jerôme; lay it down
      on the Marble steps; there shall the livid face and smashed head,
      dumb for ever, _speak_.

      Wo now to all Bodyguards, mercy is none for them! Miomandre de
      Sainte-Marie pleads with soft words, on the Grand Staircase,
      “descending four steps:”—to the roaring tornado. His comrades
      snatch him up, by the skirts and belts; literally, from the jaws
      of Destruction; and slam-to their Door. This also will stand few
      instants; the panels shivering in, like potsherds. Barricading
      serves not: fly fast, ye Bodyguards; rabid Insurrection, like the
      hellhound Chase, uproaring at your heels!

      The terrorstruck Bodyguards fly, bolting and barricading; it
      follows. Whitherward? Through hall on hall: wo, now! towards the
      Queen’s Suite of Rooms, in the furtherest room of which the Queen
      is now asleep. Five sentinels rush through that long Suite; they
      are in the Anteroom knocking loud: ‘Save the Queen!’ Trembling
      women fall at their feet with tears; are answered: ‘Yes, we will
      die; save ye the Queen!’

      Tremble not, women, but haste: for, lo, another voice shouts far
      through the outermost door, ‘Save the Queen!’ and the door shut.
      It is brave Miomandre’s voice that shouts this second warning. He
      has stormed across imminent death to do it; fronts imminent
      death, having done it. Brave Tardivet du Repaire, bent on the
      same desperate service, was borne down with pikes; his comrades
      hardly snatched him in again alive. Miomandre and Tardivet: let
      the names of these two Bodyguards, as the names of brave men
      should, live long.

      Trembling Maids of Honour, one of whom from afar caught glimpse
      of Miomandre as well as heard him, hastily wrap the Queen; not in
      robes of State. She flies for her life, across the Œil-de-Bœuf;
      against the main door of which too Insurrection batters. She is
      in the King’s Apartment, in the King’s arms; she clasps her
      children amid a faithful few. The Imperial-hearted bursts into
      mother’s tears: ‘O my friends, save me and my children, _O mes
      amis, sauvez moi et mes enfans!_’ The battering of
      Insurrectionary axes clangs audible across the Œil-de-Bœuf. What
      an hour!

      Yes, Friends: a hideous fearful hour; shameful alike to Governed
      and Governor; wherein Governed and Governor ignominiously testify
      that their relation is at an end. Rage, which had brewed itself
      in twenty thousand hearts, for the last four-and-twenty hours,
      has taken fire: Jerome’s brained corpse lies there as live-coal.
      It is, as we said, the infinite Element bursting in: wild-surging
      through all corridors and conduits.

      Meanwhile, the poor Bodyguards have got hunted mostly into the
      Œil-de-Bœuf. They may die there, at the King’s threshhold; they
      can do little to defend it. They are heaping _tabourets_ (stools
      of honour), benches and all moveables, against the door; at which
      the axe of Insurrection thunders.—But did brave Miomandre perish,
      then, at the Queen’s door? No, he was fractured, slashed,
      lacerated, left for dead; he has nevertheless crawled hither; and
      shall live, honoured of loyal France. Remark also, in flat
      contradiction to much which has been said and sung, that
      Insurrection did _not_ burst that door he had defended; but
      hurried elsewhither, seeking new bodyguards.[252]

      Poor Bodyguards, with their Thyestes’ Opera-Repast! Well for
      them, that Insurrection has only pikes and axes; no right sieging
      tools! It shakes and thunders. Must they all perish miserably,
      and Royalty with them? Deshuttes and Varigny, massacred at the
      first inbreak, have been beheaded in the Marble Court: a
      sacrifice to Jerôme’s _manes:_ Jourdan with the tile-beard did
      that duty willingly; and asked, If there were no more? Another
      captive they are leading round the corpse, with howl-chauntings:
      may not Jourdan again tuck up his sleeves?

      And louder and louder rages Insurrection within, plundering if it
      cannot kill; louder and louder it thunders at the Œil-de-Bœuf:
      what can now hinder its bursting in?—On a sudden it ceases; the
      battering has ceased! Wild rushing: the cries grow fainter: there
      is silence, or the tramp of regular steps; then a friendly
      knocking: ‘We are the Centre Grenadiers, old Gardes Françaises:
      Open to us, Messieurs of the Garde-du-Corps; we have not
      forgotten how you saved us at Fontenoy!’[253] The door is opened;
      enter Captain Gondran and the Centre Grenadiers: there are
      military embracings; there is sudden deliverance from death into
      life.

      Strange Sons of Adam! It was to “exterminate” these
      Gardes-du-Corps that the Centre Grenadiers left home: and now
      they have rushed to save them from extermination. The memory of
      common peril, of old help, melts the rough heart; bosom is
      clasped to bosom, not in war. The King shews himself, one moment,
      through the door of his Apartment, with: ‘Do not hurt my
      Guards!’—‘_Soyons frères_, Let us be brothers!’ cries Captain
      Gondran; and again dashes off, with levelled bayonets, to sweep
      the Palace clear.

      Now too Lafayette, suddenly roused, not from sleep (for his eyes
      had not yet closed), arrives; with passionate popular eloquence,
      with prompt military word of command. National Guards, suddenly
      roused, by sound of trumpet and alarm-drum, are all arriving. The
      death-melly ceases: the first sky-lambent blaze of Insurrection
      is got damped down; it burns now, if unextinguished, yet
      flameless, as charred coals do, and not inextinguishable. The
      King’s Apartments are safe. Ministers, Officials, and even some
      loyal National deputies are assembling round their Majesties. The
      consternation will, with sobs and confusion, settle down
      gradually, into plan and counsel, better or worse.

      But glance now, for a moment, from the royal windows! A roaring
      sea of human heads, inundating both Courts; billowing against all
      passages: Menadic women; infuriated men, mad with revenge, with
      love of mischief, love of plunder! Rascality has slipped its
      muzzle; and now bays, three-throated, like the Dog of Erebus.
      Fourteen Bodyguards are wounded; two massacred, and as we saw,
      beheaded; Jourdan asking, ‘Was it worth while to come so far for
      two?’ Hapless Deshuttes and Varigny! Their fate surely was sad.
      Whirled down so suddenly to the abyss; as men are, suddenly, by
      the wide thunder of the Mountain Avalanche, awakened not by
      _them_, awakened far off by others! When the Château Clock last
      struck, they two were pacing languid, with poised musketoon;
      anxious mainly that the next hour would strike. It has struck; to
      them inaudible. Their trunks lie mangled: their heads parade, “on
      pikes twelve feet long,” through the streets of Versailles; and
      shall, about noon reach the Barriers of Paris,—a too ghastly
      contradiction to the large comfortable Placards that have been
      posted there!

      The other captive Bodyguard is still circling the corpse of
      Jerome, amid Indian war-whooping; bloody Tilebeard, with tucked
      sleeves, brandishing his bloody axe; when Gondran and the
      Grenadiers come in sight. ‘Comrades, will you see a man massacred
      in cold blood?’—‘Off, butchers!’ answer they; and the poor
      Bodyguard is free. Busy runs Gondran, busy run Guards and
      Captains; scouring at all corridors; dispersing Rascality and
      Robbery; sweeping the Palace clear. The mangled carnage is
      removed; Jerome’s body to the Townhall, for inquest: the fire of
      Insurrection gets damped, more and more, into measurable,
      manageable heat.

      Transcendent things of all sorts, as in the general outburst of
      multitudinous Passion, are huddled together; the ludicrous, nay
      the ridiculous, with the horrible. Far over the billowy sea of
      heads, may be seen Rascality, caprioling on horses from the Royal
      Stud. The Spoilers these; for Patriotism is always infected so,
      with a proportion of mere thieves and scoundrels. Gondran
      snatched their prey from them in the Château; whereupon they
      hurried to the Stables, and took horse there. But the generous
      Diomedes’ steeds, according to Weber, disdained such
      scoundrel-burden; and, flinging up their royal heels, did soon
      project most of it, in parabolic curves, to a distance, amid
      peals of laughter: and were caught. Mounted National Guards
      secured the rest.

      Now too is witnessed the touching last-flicker of Etiquette;
      which sinks not here, in the Cimmerian World-wreckage, without a
      sign, as the house-cricket might still chirp in the pealing of a
      Trump of Doom. ‘Monsieur,’ said some Master of Ceremonies (one
      hopes it might be de Brézé), as Lafayette, in these fearful
      moments, was rushing towards the inner Royal Apartments,
      ‘_Monsieur, le Roi vous accorde les grandes entrées_, Monsieur,
      the King grants you the Grand Entries,’—not finding it convenient
      to refuse them![254]


      Chapter 1.7.XI.
      From Versailles.

      However, the Paris National Guard, wholly under arms, has cleared
      the Palace, and even occupies the nearer external spaces;
      extruding miscellaneous Patriotism, for most part, into the Grand
      Court, or even into the Forecourt.

      The Bodyguards, you can observe, have now of a verity, “hoisted
      the National Cockade:” for they step forward to the windows or
      balconies, hat aloft in hand, on each hat a huge tricolor; and
      fling over their bandoleers in sign of surrender; and shout _Vive
      la Nation_. To which how can the generous heart respond but with,
      _Vive le Roi; vivent les Gardes-du-Corps?_ His Majesty himself
      has appeared with Lafayette on the balcony, and again appears:
      _Vive le Roi_ greets him from all throats; but also from some one
      throat is heard ‘_Le Roi à Paris_, The King to Paris!’

      Her Majesty too, on demand, shows herself, though there is peril
      in it: she steps out on the balcony, with her little boy and
      girl. ‘No children, _Point d’enfans!_’ cry the voices. She gently
      pushes back her children; and stands alone, her hands serenely
      crossed on her breast: ‘should I die,’ she had said, ‘I will do
      it.’ Such serenity of heroism has its effect. Lafayette, with
      ready wit, in his highflown chivalrous way, takes that fair
      queenly hand; and reverently kneeling, kisses it: thereupon the
      people do shout _Vive la Reine_. Nevertheless, poor Weber “saw”
      (or even thought he saw; for hardly the third part of poor
      Weber’s experiences, in such hysterical days, will stand
      scrutiny) “one of these brigands level his musket at her
      Majesty,”—with or without intention to shoot; for another of the
      brigands “angrily struck it down.”

      So that all, and the Queen herself, nay the very Captain of the
      Bodyguards, have grown National! The very Captain of the
      Bodyguards steps out now with Lafayette. On the hat of the
      repentant man is an enormous tricolor; large as a soup-platter,
      or sun-flower; visible to the utmost Forecourt. He takes the
      National Oath with a loud voice, elevating his hat; at which
      sight all the army raise their bonnets on their bayonets, with
      shouts. Sweet is reconcilement to the heart of man. Lafayette has
      sworn Flandre; he swears the remaining Bodyguards, down in the
      Marble Court; the people clasp them in their arms:—O, my
      brothers, why would ye force us to slay you? Behold there is joy
      over you, as over returning prodigal sons!—The poor Bodyguards,
      now National and tricolor, exchange bonnets, exchange arms; there
      shall be peace and fraternity. And still ‘_Vive le Roi;_’ and
      also ‘_Le Roi à Paris_,’ not now from one throat, but from all
      throats as one, for it is the heart’s wish of all mortals.

      Yes, _The King to Paris:_ what else? Ministers may consult, and
      National Deputies wag their heads: but there is now no other
      possibility. You have forced him to go willingly. ‘At one
      o’clock!’ Lafayette gives audible assurance to that purpose; and
      universal Insurrection, with immeasurable shout, and a discharge
      of all the firearms, clear and rusty, great and small, that it
      has, returns him acceptance. What a sound; heard for leagues: a
      doom peal!—That sound too rolls away, into the Silence of Ages.
      And the Château of Versailles stands ever since vacant, hushed
      still; its spacious Courts grassgrown, responsive to the hoe of
      the weeder. Times and generations roll on, in their confused
      Gulf-current; and buildings like builders have their destiny.

      Till one o’clock, then, there will be three parties, National
      Assembly, National Rascality, National Royalty, all busy enough.
      Rascality rejoices; women trim themselves with tricolor. Nay
      motherly Paris has sent her Avengers sufficient “cartloads of
      loaves;” which are shouted over, which are gratefully consumed.
      The Avengers, in return, are searching for grain-stores; loading
      them in fifty waggons; that so a National King, probable
      harbinger of all blessings, may be the evident bringer of plenty,
      for one.

      And thus has Sansculottism made prisoner its King; _revoking_ his
      parole. The Monarchy has fallen; and not so much as honourably:
      no, ignominiously; with struggle, indeed, oft repeated; but then
      with unwise struggle; wasting its strength in fits and paroxysms;
      at every new paroxysm, foiled more pitifully than before. Thus
      Broglie’s whiff of grapeshot, which might have been something,
      has dwindled to the pot-valour of an Opera Repast, and _O
      Richard, O mon Roi_. Which again we shall see dwindle to a
      Favras’ Conspiracy, a thing to be settled by the hanging of one
      Chevalier.

      Poor Monarchy! But what save foulest defeat can await that man,
      who wills, and yet wills not? Apparently the King either has a
      right, assertible as such to the death, before God and man; or
      else he has no right. Apparently, the one or the other; could he
      but know which! May Heaven pity him! Were Louis wise he would
      this day abdicate.—Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; and
      none yet heard of has been known to commit suicide? Fritz the
      First, of Prussia, alone tried it; and they cut the rope.[255]

      As for the National Assembly, which decrees this morning that it
      “is inseparable from his Majesty,” and will follow him to Paris,
      there may one thing be noted: its extreme want of bodily health.
      After the Fourteenth of July there was a certain sickliness
      observable among honourable Members; so many demanding passports,
      on account of infirm health. But now, for these following days,
      there is a perfect murrian: President Mounier, Lally Tollendal,
      Clermont Tonnere, and all Constitutional Two-Chamber Royalists
      needing change of air; as most No-Chamber Royalists had formerly
      done.

      For, in truth, it is the _second Emigration_ this that has now
      come; most extensive among Commons Deputies, Noblesse, Clergy: so
      that “to Switzerland alone there go sixty thousand.” They will
      return in the day of accounts! Yes, and have hot welcome.—But
      Emigration on Emigration is the peculiarity of France. One
      Emigration follows another; grounded on reasonable fear,
      unreasonable hope, largely also on childish pet. The highflyers
      have gone first, now the lower flyers; and ever the lower will go
      down to the crawlers. Whereby, however, cannot our National
      Assembly so much the more commodiously make the Constitution;
      your Two-Chamber Anglomaniacs being all safe, distant on foreign
      shores? Abbé Maury is seized, and sent back again: he, tough as
      tanned leather, with eloquent Captain Cazalès and some others,
      will stand it out for another year.

      But here, meanwhile, the question arises: Was Philippe d’Orléans
      seen, this day, “in the Bois de Boulogne, in grey surtout;”
      waiting under the wet sere foliage, what the day might bring
      forth? Alas, yes, the Eidolon of him was,—in Weber’s and other
      such brains. The Chatelet shall make large inquisition into the
      matter, examining a hundred and seventy witnesses, and Deputy
      Chabroud publish his Report; but disclose nothing _farther_.[256]
      What then has caused these two unparalleled October Days? For
      surely such dramatic exhibition never yet enacted itself without
      Dramatist and Machinist. Wooden Punch emerges not, with his
      domestic sorrows, into the light of day, unless the wire be
      pulled: how can human mobs? Was it not d’Orléans then, and
      Laclos, Marquis Sillery, Mirabeau and the sons of confusion,
      hoping to drive the King to Metz, and gather the spoil? Nay was
      it not, quite contrariwise, the Œil-de-Bœuf, Bodyguard Colonel de
      Guiche, Minister Saint-Priest and highflying Loyalists; hoping
      also to drive him to Metz; and try it by the sword of civil war?
      Good Marquis Toulongeon, the Historian and Deputy, feels
      constrained to admit that it was _both_.[257]

      Alas, my Friends, credulous incredulity is a strange matter. But
      when a whole Nation is smitten with Suspicion, and sees a
      dramatic miracle in the very operation of the gastric juices,
      what help is there? Such Nation is already a mere hypochondriac
      bundle of diseases; as good as changed into glass; atrabiliar,
      decadent; and will suffer crises. Is not Suspicion itself the one
      thing to be suspected, as Montaigne feared only fear?

      Now, however, the short hour has struck. His Majesty is in his
      carriage, with his Queen, sister Elizabeth, and two royal
      children. Not for another hour can the infinite Procession get
      marshalled, and under way. The weather is dim drizzling; the mind
      confused; and noise great.

      Processional marches not a few our world has seen; Roman triumphs
      and ovations, Cabiric cymbal-beatings, Royal progresses, Irish
      funerals: but this of the French Monarchy marching to its bed
      remained to be seen. Miles long, and of breadth losing itself in
      vagueness, for all the neighbouring country crowds to see. Slow;
      stagnating along, like shoreless Lake, yet with a noise like
      Niagara, like Babel and Bedlam. A splashing and a tramping; a
      hurrahing, uproaring, musket-volleying;—the truest segment of
      Chaos seen in these latter Ages! Till slowly it disembogue
      itself, in the thickening dusk, into expectant Paris, through a
      double row of faces all the way from Passy to the Hôtel-de-Ville.

      Consider this: Vanguard of National troops; with trains of
      artillery; of pikemen and pikewomen, mounted on cannons, on
      carts, hackney-coaches, or on foot;—tripudiating, in tricolor
      ribbons from head to heel; loaves stuck on the points of
      bayonets, green boughs stuck in gun barrels.[258] Next, as
      main-march, “fifty cartloads of corn,” which have been lent, for
      peace, from the stores of Versailles. Behind which follow
      stragglers of the Garde-du-Corps; all humiliated, in Grenadier
      bonnets. Close on these comes the Royal Carriage; come Royal
      Carriages: for there are an Hundred National Deputies too, among
      whom sits Mirabeau,—his remarks not given. Then finally,
      pellmell, as rearguard, Flandre, Swiss, Hundred Swiss, other
      Bodyguards, Brigands, whosoever cannot get before. Between and
      among all which masses, flows without limit Saint-Antoine, and
      the Menadic Cohort. Menadic especially about the Royal Carriage;
      tripudiating there, covered with tricolor; singing “allusive
      songs;” pointing with one hand to the Royal Carriage, which the
      illusions hit, and pointing to the Provision-wagons, with the
      other hand, and these words: ‘Courage, Friends! We shall not want
      bread now; we are bringing you the Baker, the Bakeress, and
      Baker’s Boy (_le Boulanger, la Boulangère, et le petit
      Mitron_).’[259]

      The wet day draggles the tricolor, but the joy is
      unextinguishable. Is not all well now? ‘_Ah, Madame, notre bonne
      Reine_,’ said some of these Strong-women some days hence, ‘Ah
      Madame, our good Queen, don’t be a traitor any more (_ne soyez
      plus traître_), and we will all love you!’ Poor Weber went
      splashing along, close by the Royal carriage, with the tear in
      his eye: “their Majesties did me the honour,” or I thought they
      did it, “to testify, from time to time, by shrugging of the
      shoulders, by looks directed to Heaven, the emotions they felt.”
      Thus, like frail cockle, floats the Royal Life-boat, helmless, on
      black deluges of Rascality.

      Mercier, in his loose way, estimates the Procession and
      assistants at two hundred thousand. He says it was one boundless
      inarticulate Haha;—_transcendent_ World-Laughter; comparable to
      the Saturnalia of the Ancients. Why not? Here too, as we said, is
      Human Nature once more human; shudder at it whoso is of
      shuddering humour: yet behold it is human. It has “swallowed all
      formulas;” it tripudiates even so. For which reason they that
      collect Vases and Antiques, with figures of Dancing Bacchantes
      “in wild and all but impossible positions,” may look with some
      interest on it.

      Thus, however, has the slow-moving Chaos or modern Saturnalia of
      the Ancients, reached the Barrier; and must halt, to be harangued
      by Mayor Bailly. Thereafter it has to lumber along, between the
      double row of faces, in the transcendent heaven-lashing Haha; two
      hours longer, towards the Hôtel-de-Ville. Then again to be
      harangued there, by several persons; by Moreau de Saint-Méry,
      among others; Moreau of the Three-thousand orders, now National
      Deputy for St. Domingo. To all which poor Louis, who seemed to
      “experience a slight emotion” on entering this Townhall, can
      answer only that he ‘comes with pleasure, with confidence among
      his people.’ Mayor Bailly, in reporting it, forgets “confidence;”
      and the poor Queen says eagerly: ‘Add, with
      confidence.’—‘Messieurs,’ rejoins Bailly, ‘You are happier than
      if I had not forgot.’

      Finally, the King is shewn on an upper balcony, by torchlight,
      with a huge tricolor in his hat: “And all the ‘people,’ says
      Weber, grasped one another’s hands;—thinking _now_ surely the New
      Era was born.” Hardly till eleven at night can Royalty get to its
      vacant, long-deserted Palace of the Tuileries: to lodge there,
      somewhat in strolling-player fashion. It is Tuesday, the sixth of
      October, 1789.

      Poor Louis has Two other Paris Processions to make: one
      ludicrous-ignominious like this; the other not ludicrous nor
      ignominious, but serious, nay sublime.

 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.


      VOLUME II.
      THE CONSTITUTION

Mauern seh ich’ gestürzt, und Mauern seh’ ich errichtet
    Hier Gefangene, dort auch der Gefangenen viel.
Ist vielleicht nur die Welt ein grosser Kerker? Und frei ist
    Wohl der Tolle, der sich Ketten zu Kränzen erkiest?

 GOETHE.


      BOOK 2.I.
      THE FEAST OF PIKES


      Chapter 2.1.I.
      In the Tuileries.

      The victim having once got his stroke-of-grace, the catastrophe
      can be considered as almost come. There is small interest now in
      watching his long low moans: notable only are his sharper
      agonies, what convulsive struggles he may take to cast the
      torture off from him; and then finally the last departure of life
      itself, and how he lies extinct and ended, either wrapt like
      Cæsar in decorous mantle-folds, or unseemly sunk together, like
      one that had not the force even to die.

      Was French Royalty, when wrenched forth from its tapestries in
      that fashion, on that Sixth of October 1789, such a victim?
      Universal France, and Royal Proclamation to all the Provinces,
      answers anxiously, _No._ Nevertheless one may fear the worst.
      Royalty was beforehand so decrepit, moribund, there is little
      life in it to heal an injury. How much of its strength, which was
      of the imagination merely, has fled; Rascality having looked
      plainly in the King’s face, and not died! When the assembled
      crows can pluck up their scarecrow, and say to it, Here shalt
      thou stand and not there; and can treat with it, and make it,
      from an infinite, a quite finite Constitutional scarecrow,—what
      is to be looked for? Not in the finite Constitutional scarecrow,
      but in what still unmeasured, infinite-seeming force may rally
      round it, is there thenceforth any hope. For it is most true that
      all available Authority is _mystic_ in its conditions, and comes
      “by the grace of God.”

      Cheerfuller than watching the death-struggles of Royalism will it
      be to watch the growth and gambollings of Sansculottism; for, in
      human things, especially in human society, all death is but a
      death-birth: thus if the sceptre is departing from Louis, it is
      only that, in other forms, other sceptres, were it even
      pike-sceptres, may bear sway. In a prurient element, rich with
      nutritive influences, we shall find that Sansculottism grows
      lustily, and even frisks in not ungraceful sport: as indeed most
      young creatures are sportful; nay, may it not be noted further,
      that as the grown cat, and cat-species generally, is the
      cruellest thing known, so the merriest is precisely the kitten,
      or growing cat?

      But fancy the Royal Family risen from its truckle-beds on the
      morrow of that mad day: fancy the Municipal inquiry, ‘How would
      your Majesty please to lodge?’—and then that the King’s rough
      answer, ‘Each may lodge as he can, I am well enough,’ is congeed
      and bowed away, in expressive grins, by the Townhall
      Functionaries, with obsequious upholsterers at their back; and
      how the Château of the Tuileries is repainted, regarnished into a
      golden Royal Residence; and Lafayette with his blue National
      Guards lies encompassing it, as blue Neptune (in the language of
      poets) does an island, wooingly. Thither may the wrecks of
      rehabilitated Loyalty gather; if it will become Constitutional;
      for Constitutionalism thinks no evil; Sansculottism itself
      rejoices in the King’s countenance. The rubbish of a Menadic
      Insurrection, as in this ever-kindly world all rubbish can and
      must be, is swept aside; and so again, on clear arena, under new
      conditions, with something even of a new stateliness, we begin a
      new course of action.

      Arthur Young has witnessed the strangest scene: Majesty walking
      unattended in the Tuileries Gardens; and miscellaneous tricolor
      crowds, who cheer it, and reverently make way for it: the very
      Queen commands at lowest respectful silence, regretful
      avoidance.[260] Simple ducks, in those royal waters, quackle for
      crumbs from young royal fingers: the little Dauphin has a little
      railed garden, where he is seen delving, with ruddy cheeks and
      flaxen curled hair; also a little hutch to put his tools in, and
      screen himself against showers. What peaceable simplicity! Is it
      peace of a Father restored to his children? Or of a Taskmaster
      who has lost his whip? Lafayette and the Municipality and
      universal Constitutionalism assert the former, and do what is in
      them to realise it. Such Patriotism as snarls dangerously, and
      shows teeth, Patrollotism shall suppress; or far better, Royalty
      shall soothe down the angry hair of it, by gentle pattings; and,
      most effectual of all, by fuller diet. Yes, not only shall Paris
      be fed, but the King’s hand be seen in that work. The household
      goods of the Poor shall, up to a certain amount, by royal bounty,
      be disengaged from pawn, and that insatiable _Mont de Piété_
      disgorge: rides in the city with their _Vive-le-Roi_ need not
      fail; and so by substance and show, shall Royalty, if man’s art
      can popularise it, be popularised.[261]

      Or, alas, is it neither restored Father nor diswhipped Taskmaster
      that walks there; but an anomalous complex of both these, and of
      innumerable other heterogeneities; reducible to no rubric, if not
      to this newly devised one: _King Louis Restorer of French
      Liberty?_ Man indeed, and King Louis like other men, lives in
      this world to make rule out of the ruleless; by his living
      energy, he shall force the absurd itself to become less absurd.
      But then if there _be_ no living energy; living passivity only?
      King Serpent, hurled into his unexpected watery dominion, did at
      least bite, and assert credibly that he was there: but as for the
      poor King Log, tumbled hither and thither as thousandfold chance
      and other will than his might direct, how happy for him that he
      was indeed wooden; and, doing nothing, could also see and suffer
      nothing! It is a distracted business.

      For his French Majesty, meanwhile, one of the worst things is
      that he can get no hunting. Alas, no hunting henceforth; only a
      fatal being-hunted! Scarcely, in the next June weeks, shall he
      taste again the joys of the game-destroyer; in next June, and
      never more. He sends for his smith-tools; gives, in the course of
      the day, official or ceremonial business being ended, “a few
      strokes of the file, _quelques coups de lime._[262] Innocent
      brother mortal, why wert thou not an obscure substantial maker of
      locks; but doomed in that other far-seen craft, to be a maker
      only of world-follies, unrealities; things self destructive,
      which no mortal hammering could rivet into coherence!

      Poor Louis is not without insight, nor even without the elements
      of will; some sharpness of temper, spurting at times from a
      stagnating character. If harmless inertness could save him, it
      were well; but he will slumber and painfully dream, and to _do_
      aught is not given him. Royalist Antiquarians still shew the
      rooms where Majesty and suite, in these extraordinary
      circumstances, had their lodging. Here sat the Queen;
      reading,—for she had her library brought hither, though the King
      refused his; taking vehement counsel of the vehement
      uncounselled; sorrowing over altered times; yet with sure hope of
      better: in her young rosy Boy, has she not the living emblem of
      hope! It is a murky, working sky; yet with golden gleams—of dawn,
      or of deeper meteoric night? Here again this chamber, on the
      other side of the main entrance, was the King’s: here his Majesty
      breakfasted, and did official work; here daily after breakfast he
      received the Queen; sometimes in pathetic friendliness; sometimes
      in human sulkiness, for flesh is weak; and, when questioned about
      business would answer: ‘Madame, your business is with the
      children.’ Nay, Sire, were it not better you, your Majesty’s
      self, took the children? So asks impartial History; scornful that
      the _thicker_ vessel was not also the stronger; pity-struck for
      the porcelain-clay of humanity rather than for the
      tile-clay,—though indeed _both_ were broken!

      So, however, in this Medicean Tuileries, shall the French King
      and Queen now sit, for one-and-forty months; and see a
      wild-fermenting France work out its own destiny, and theirs.
      Months bleak, ungenial, of rapid vicissitude; yet with a mild
      pale splendour, here and there: as of an April that were leading
      to leafiest Summer; as of an October that led only to everlasting
      Frost. Medicean Tuileries, how changed since it was a peaceful
      Tile field! Or is the ground itself fate-stricken, accursed: an
      Atreus’ Palace; for that Louvre window is still nigh, out of
      which a Capet, whipt of the Furies, fired his signal of the Saint
      Bartholomew! Dark is the way of the Eternal as mirrored in this
      world of Time: God’s way is in the sea, and His path in the great
      deep.


      Chapter 2.1.II.
      In the Salle de Manége.

      To believing Patriots, however, it is now clear, that the
      Constitution will march, _marcher_,—had it once legs to stand on.
      Quick, then, ye Patriots, bestir yourselves, and make it; shape
      legs for it! In the _Archevêché_, or Archbishop’s Palace, his
      Grace himself having fled; and afterwards in the Riding-hall,
      named Manege, close on the Tuileries: there does a National
      Assembly apply itself to the miraculous work. Successfully, had
      there been any heaven-scaling Prometheus among them; not
      successfully since there was none! There, in noisy debate, for
      the sessions are occasionally “scandalous,” and as many as three
      speakers have been seen in the Tribune at once,—let us continue
      to fancy it wearing the slow months.

      Tough, dogmatic, long of wind is Abbé Maury; Ciceronian pathetic
      is Cazalès. Keen-trenchant, on the other side, glitters a young
      Barnave; abhorrent of sophistry; sheering, like keen Damascus
      sabre, all sophistry asunder,—reckless what else he sheer with
      it. Simple seemest thou, O solid Dutch-built Pétion; if solid,
      surely dull. Nor lifegiving in that tone of thine, livelier
      polemical Rabaut. With ineffable serenity sniffs great Sieyes,
      aloft, alone; his Constitution ye may babble over, ye may mar,
      but can by no possibility mend: is not Polity a science he has
      exhausted? Cool, slow, two military Lameths are visible, with
      their quality sneer, or demi-sneer; they shall gallantly refund
      their Mother’s Pension, when the Red Book is produced; gallantly
      be wounded in duels. A Marquis Toulongeon, whose Pen we yet
      thank, sits there; in stoical meditative humour, oftenest silent,
      accepts what destiny will send. Thouret and Parlementary Duport
      produce mountains of Reformed Law; liberal, Anglomaniac,
      available and unavailable. Mortals rise and fall. Shall goose
      Gobel, for example,—or Go(with an umlaut)bel, for he is of
      Strasburg German breed, be a Constitutional Archbishop?

      Alone of all men there, Mirabeau may begin to discern clearly
      whither all this is tending. Patriotism, accordingly, regrets
      that his zeal seems to be getting cool. In that famed
      Pentecost-Night of the Fourth of August, when new Faith rose
      suddenly into miraculous fire, and old Feudality was burnt up,
      men remarked that Mirabeau took no hand in it; that, in fact, he
      luckily happened to be absent. But did he not defend the _Veto_,
      nay _Veto Absolu;_ and tell vehement Barnave that six hundred
      irresponsible senators would make of all tyrannies the
      insupportablest? Again, how anxious was he that the King’s
      Ministers should have seat and voice in the National
      Assembly;—doubtless with an eye to being Minister himself!
      Whereupon the National Assembly decides, what is very momentous,
      that no Deputy shall be Minister; he, in his haughty stormful
      manner, advising us to make it, “no Deputy called Mirabeau.”[263]
      A man of perhaps inveterate Feudalisms; of stratagems; too often
      visible leanings towards the Royalist side: a man suspect; whom
      Patriotism will unmask! Thus, in these June days, when the
      question _Who shall have right to declare war?_ comes on, you
      hear hoarse Hawkers sound dolefully through the streets, ‘Grand
      Treason of Count Mirabeau, price only one sou;’—because he pleads
      that it shall be not the Assembly but the King! Pleads; nay
      prevails: for in spite of the hoarse Hawkers, and an endless
      Populace raised by them to the pitch even of “_Lanterne_,” he
      mounts the Tribune next day; grim-resolute; murmuring aside to
      his friends that speak of danger: ‘I know it: I must come hence
      either in triumph, or else torn in fragments;’ and it was in
      triumph that he came.

      A man of stout heart; whose popularity is not of the populace,
      “_pas populacière;_” whom no clamour of unwashed mobs without
      doors, or of washed mobs within, can scarce from his way! Dumont
      remembers hearing him deliver a Report on Marseilles; “every word
      was interrupted on the part of the _Côté Droit_ by abusive
      epithets; calumniator, liar, assassin, scoundrel (_scélérat_):
      Mirabeau pauses a moment, and, in a honeyed tone, addressing the
      most furious, says: ‘I wait, Messieurs, till these amenities be
      exhausted.’”[264] A man enigmatic, difficult to unmask! For
      example, whence comes his money? Can the profit of a Newspaper,
      sorely eaten into by Dame Le Jay; can this, and the eighteen
      francs a-day your National Deputy has, be supposed equal to this
      expenditure? House in the Chaussée d’Antin; Country-house at
      Argenteuil; splendours, sumptuosities, orgies;—living as if he
      had a mint! All saloons barred against Adventurer Mirabeau, are
      flung wide open to King Mirabeau, the cynosure of Europe, whom
      female France flutters to behold,—though the Man Mirabeau is one
      and the same. As for money, one may conjecture that Royalism
      furnishes it; which if Royalism do, will not the same be welcome,
      as money always is to him?

      “Sold,” whatever Patriotism thinks, he cannot readily be: the
      spiritual fire which is in that man; which shining through such
      confusions is nevertheless Conviction, and makes him strong, and
      without which he had no strength,—is not buyable nor saleable; in
      such transference of barter, it would vanish and not _be_.
      Perhaps “paid and not sold, _payé pas vendu:_” as poor Rivarol,
      in the unhappier converse way, calls himself “sold and not paid!”
      A man travelling, comet-like, in splendour and nebulosity, his
      wild way; whom telescopic Patriotism may long watch, but, without
      higher mathematics, will not make out. A questionable most
      blameable man; yet to us the far notablest of all. With rich
      munificence, as we often say, in a most blinkard, bespectacled,
      logic-chopping generation, Nature has gifted this man with an
      eye. Welcome is his word, there where he speaks and works; and
      growing ever welcomer; for it alone goes to the heart of the
      business: logical cobwebbery shrinks itself together; and thou
      seest a _thing_, how it is, how is may be worked with.

      Unhappily our National Assembly has much to do: a France to
      regenerate; and France is short of so many requisites; short even
      of cash! These same Finances give trouble enough; no choking of
      the Deficit; which gapes ever, _Give, give!_ To appease the
      Deficit we venture on a hazardous step, sale of the Clergy’s
      Lands and superfluous Edifices; most hazardous. Nay, given the
      sale, who is to buy them, ready-money having fled? Wherefore, on
      the 19th day of December, a paper-money of “_Assignats_,” of
      Bonds secured, or _assigned_, on that Clerico-National Property,
      and unquestionable at least in payment of that,—is decreed: the
      first of a long series of like financial performances, which
      shall astonish mankind. So that now, while old rags last, there
      shall be no lack of circulating medium; whether of commodities to
      circulate thereon is another question. But, after all, does not
      this Assignat business speak volumes for modern science?
      Bankruptcy, we may say, was come, as the _end_ of all Delusions
      needs must come: yet how gently, in softening diffusion, in mild
      succession, was it hereby made to fall;—like no all-destroying
      avalanche; like gentle showers of a powdery impalpable snow,
      shower after shower, till all was indeed buried, and yet little
      was destroyed that could not be replaced, be dispensed with! To
      such length has modern machinery reached. Bankruptcy, we said,
      was great; but indeed Money itself is a standing miracle.

      On the whole, it is a matter of endless difficulty, that of the
      Clergy. Clerical property may be made the Nation’s, and the
      Clergy hired servants of the State; but if so, is it not an
      altered Church? Adjustment enough, of the most confused sort, has
      become unavoidable. Old landmarks, in any sense, avail not in a
      new France. Nay literally, the very Ground is new divided; your
      old party-coloured _Provinces_ become new uniform _Departments_,
      Eighty-three in number;—whereby, as in some sudden shifting of
      the Earth’s axis, no mortal knows his new latitude at once. The
      Twelve old Parlements too, what is to be done with them? The old
      Parlements are declared to be all “in permanent vacation,”—till
      once the new equal-justice, of Departmental Courts, National
      Appeal-Court, of elective Justices, Justices of Peace, and other
      Thouret-and-Duport apparatus be got ready. They have to sit
      there, these old Parlements, uneasily waiting; as it were, with
      the rope round their neck; crying as they can, _Is there none to
      deliver us?_ But happily the answer being, _None, none_, they are
      a manageable class, these Parlements. They can be bullied, even
      into silence; the Paris Parliament, wiser than most, has never
      whimpered. They will and must sit there; in such vacation as is
      fit; their Chamber of Vacation distributes in the interim what
      little justice is going. With the rope round their neck, their
      destiny may be succinct! On the 13th of November 1790, Mayor
      Bailly shall walk to the Palais de Justice, few even heeding him;
      and with municipal seal-stamp and a little hot wax, seal up the
      Parlementary Paper-rooms,—and the dread Parlement of Paris pass
      away, into Chaos, gently as does a Dream! So shall the Parlements
      perish, succinctly; and innumerable eyes be dry.

      Not so the Clergy. For granting even that Religion were dead;
      that it had died, half-centuries ago, with unutterable Dubois; or
      emigrated lately, to Alsace, with Necklace-Cardinal Rohan; or
      that it now walked as goblin _revenant_ with Bishop Talleyrand of
      Autun; yet does not the Shadow of Religion, the Cant of Religion,
      still linger? The Clergy have means and material: means, of
      number, organization, social weight; a material, at lowest, of
      public ignorance, known to be the mother of devotion. Nay,
      withal, is it incredible that there might, in simple hearts,
      latent here and there like gold grains in the mud-beach, still
      dwell some real Faith in God, of so singular and tenacious a sort
      that even a Maury or a Talleyrand, could still be the symbol for
      it?—Enough, and Clergy has strength, the Clergy has craft and
      indignation. It is a most fatal business this of the Clergy. A
      weltering hydra-coil, which the National Assembly has stirred up
      about its ears; hissing, stinging; which cannot be appeased,
      alive; which cannot be trampled dead! Fatal, from first to last!
      Scarcely after fifteen months’ debating, can a _Civil
      Constitution of the Clergy_ be so much as got to paper; and then
      for getting it into reality? Alas, such Civil Constitution is but
      an agreement to disagree. It divides France from end to end, with
      a new split, infinitely complicating all the other
      splits;—Catholicism, what of it there is left, with the Cant of
      Catholicism, raging on the one side, and sceptic Heathenism on
      the other; both, by contradiction , waxing fanatic. What endless
      jarring, of Refractory hated Priests, and Constitutional despised
      ones; of tender consciences, like the King’s, and consciences
      hot-seared, like certain of his People’s: the whole to end in
      Feasts of Reason and a War of La Vendée! So deep-seated is
      Religion in the heart of man, and holds of all infinite passions.
      If the dead echo of it still did so much, what could not the
      living voice of it once do?

      Finance and Constitution, Law and Gospel: this surely were work
      enough; yet this is not all. In fact, the Ministry, and Necker
      himself whom a brass inscription “fastened by the people over his
      door-lintel” testifies to be the “_Ministre adoré_,” are
      dwindling into clearer and clearer nullity. Execution or
      legislation, arrangement or detail, from their nerveless fingers
      all drops undone; all lights at last on the toiled shoulders of
      an august Representative Body. Heavy-laden National Assembly! It
      has to hear of innumerable fresh revolts, Brigand expeditions; of
      Châteaus in the West, especially of Charter-chests, _Chartiers_,
      set on fire; for there too the overloaded Ass frightfully
      recalcitrates. Of Cities in the South full of heats and
      jealousies; which will end in crossed sabres, Marseilles against
      Toulon, and Carpentras beleaguered by Avignon;—such Royalist
      collision in a career of Freedom; nay Patriot collision, which a
      mere difference of _velocity_ will bring about! Of a Jourdan
      Coup-tete, who has skulked thitherward, from the claws of the
      Chatelet; and will raise whole scoundrel-regiments.

      Also it has to hear of Royalist _Camp of Jalès:_ Jalès
      mountain-girdled Plain, amid the rocks of the Cevennes; whence
      Royalism, as is feared and hoped, may dash down like a mountain
      deluge, and submerge France! A singular thing this camp of Jalès;
      existing mostly on paper. For the Soldiers at Jalès, being
      peasants or National Guards, were in heart sworn Sansculottes;
      and all that the Royalist Captains could do was, with false
      words, to keep them, or rather keep the report of them, drawn up
      there, visible to all imaginations, for a terror and a sign,—if
      peradventure France might be reconquered by theatrical machinery,
      by the _picture_ of a Royalist Army done to the life![265] Not
      till the third summer was this portent, burning out by fits and
      then fading, got finally extinguished; was the old Castle of
      Jalès, no Camp being visible to the bodily eye, got blown asunder
      by some National Guards.

      Also it has to hear not only of Brissot and his _Friends of the
      Blacks_, but by and by of a whole St. Domingo blazing skyward;
      blazing in literal fire, and in far worse metaphorical; beaconing
      the nightly main. Also of the shipping interest, and the
      landed-interest, and all manner of interests, reduced to
      distress. Of Industry every where manacled, bewildered; and only
      Rebellion thriving. Of sub-officers, soldiers and sailors in
      mutiny by land and water. Of soldiers, at Nanci, as we shall see,
      needing to be cannonaded by a brave Bouillé. Of sailors, nay the
      very galley-slaves, at Brest, needing also to be cannonaded; but
      with no Bouillé to do it. For indeed, to say it in a word, in
      those days there was _no King_ in Israel, and every man did that
      which was right in his own eyes.[266]

      Such things has an august National Assembly to hear of, as it
      goes on regenerating France. Sad and stern: but what remedy? Get
      the Constitution ready; and all men will swear to it: for do not
      “Addresses of adhesion” arrive by the cartload? In this manner,
      by Heaven’s blessing, and a Constitution got ready, shall the
      bottomless fire-gulf be vaulted in, with rag-paper; and Order
      will wed Freedom, and live with her there,—till it grow too hot
      for them. _O Côté Gauche_, worthy are ye, as the adhesive
      Addresses generally say, to “fix the regards of the Universe;”
      the regards of this one poor Planet, at lowest!—

      Nay, it must be owned, the _Côté Droit_ makes a still madder
      figure. An irrational generation; irrational, imbecile, and with
      the vehement obstinacy characteristic of that; a generation which
      will not learn. Falling Bastilles, Insurrections of Women,
      thousands of smoking Manorhouses, a country bristling with no
      crop but that of Sansculottic steel: these were tolerably
      didactic lessons; but them they have not taught. There are still
      men, of whom it was of old written, Bray them in a mortar! Or, in
      milder language, They have _wedded_ their delusions: fire nor
      steel, nor any sharpness of Experience, shall sever the bond;
      till death do us part! Of such may the Heavens have mercy; for
      the Earth, with her rigorous Necessity, will have none.

      Admit, at the same time, that it was most natural. Man lives by
      Hope: Pandora when her box of gods’-gifts flew all out, and
      became gods’-curses, still retained Hope. How shall an irrational
      mortal, when his high-place is never so evidently pulled down,
      and he, being irrational, is left resourceless,—part with the
      belief that it will be rebuilt? It would make all so straight
      again; it seems so unspeakably desirable; so reasonable,—would
      you but look at it aright! For, must not the thing which was
      continue to be; or else the solid World dissolve? Yes, persist, O
      infatuated Sansculottes of France! Revolt against constituted
      Authorities; hunt out your rightful Seigneurs, who at bottom so
      loved you, and readily shed their blood for you,—in country’s
      battles as at Rossbach and elsewhere; and, even in preserving
      game, were preserving _you_, could ye but have understood it:
      hunt them out, as if they were wild wolves; set fire to their
      Châteaus and Chartiers as to wolf-dens; and what then? Why, then
      turn every man his hand against his fellow! In confusion, famine,
      desolation, regret the days that are gone; rueful recall them,
      recall us with them. To repentant prayers we will not be deaf.

      So, with dimmer or clearer consciousness, must the Right Side
      reason and act. An inevitable position perhaps; but a most false
      one for them. Evil, be thou our good: this henceforth must
      virtually be their prayer. The fiercer the effervescence grows,
      the sooner will it pass; for after all it is but some mad
      effervescence; the World is solid, and cannot dissolve.

      For the rest, if they have any positive industry, it is that of
      plots, and backstairs conclaves. Plots which cannot be executed;
      which are mostly theoretic on their part;—for which nevertheless
      this and the other practical Sieur Augeard, Sieur Maillebois,
      Sieur Bonne Savardin, gets into trouble, gets imprisoned, and
      escapes with difficulty. Nay there is a poor practical Chevalier
      Favras who, not without some passing reflex on Monsieur himself,
      gets hanged for them, amid loud uproar of the world. Poor Favras,
      he keeps dictating his last will at the “Hôtel-de-Ville, through
      the whole remainder of the day,” a weary February day; offers to
      reveal secrets, if they will save him; handsomely declines since
      they will not; then dies, in the flare of torchlight, with
      politest composure; remarking, rather than exclaiming, with
      outspread hands: ‘People, I die innocent; pray for me.’[267] Poor
      Favras;—type of so much that has prowled indefatigable over
      France, in days now ending; and, in freer field, might have
      _earned_ instead of prowling,—to thee it is no theory!

      In the Senate-house again, the attitude of the Right Side is that
      of calm unbelief. Let an august National Assembly make a
      Fourth-of-August Abolition of Feudality; declare the Clergy
      State-servants who shall have wages; vote Suspensive Vetos, new
      Law-Courts; vote or decree what contested thing it will; have it
      responded to from the four corners of France, nay get King’s
      Sanction, and what other Acceptance were conceivable,—the Right
      Side, as we find, persists, with imperturbablest tenacity, in
      considering, and ever and anon shews that it still considers, all
      these so-called Decrees as mere temporary whims, which indeed
      stand on paper, but in practice and fact are not, and cannot be.
      Figure the brass head of an Abbé Maury flooding forth Jesuitic
      eloquence in this strain; dusky d’Espréménil, Barrel Mirabeau
      (probably in liquor), and enough of others, cheering him from the
      Right; and, for example, with what visage a seagreen Robespierre
      eyes him from the Left. And how Sieyes ineffably sniffs on him,
      or does not deign to sniff; and how the Galleries groan in
      spirit, or bark rabid on him: so that to escape the Lanterne, on
      stepping forth, he needs presence of mind, and a pair of pistols
      in his girdle! For he is one of the toughest of men.

      Here indeed becomes notable one great difference between our two
      kinds of civil war; between the modern _lingual_ or
      Parliamentary-logical kind, and the ancient, or _manual_ kind, in
      the steel battle-field;—much to the disadvantage of the former.
      In the manual kind, where you front your foe with drawn weapon,
      one right stroke is final; for, physically speaking, when the
      brains are out the man does honestly die, and trouble you no
      more. But how different when it is with arguments you fight! Here
      no victory yet definable can be considered as final. Beat him
      down, with Parliamentary invective, till sense be fled; cut him
      in two, hanging one half in this dilemma-horn, the other on that;
      blow the brains or thinking-faculty quite out of him for the
      time: it skills not; he rallies and revives on the morrow;
      tomorrow he repairs his golden fires! The think that _will_
      logically extinguish him is perhaps still a desideratum in
      Constitutional civilisation. For how, till a man know, in some
      measure, at what point he becomes logically defunct, can
      Parliamentary Business be carried on, and Talk cease or slake?

      Doubtless it was some feeling of this difficulty; and the clear
      insight how little such knowledge yet existed in the French
      Nation, new in the Constitutional career, and how defunct
      Aristocrats would continue to walk for unlimited periods, as
      Partridge the Alamanack-maker did,—that had sunk into the deep
      mind of People’s-friend Marat, an eminently practical mind; and
      had grown there, in that richest putrescent soil, into the most
      original plan of action ever submitted to a People. Not yet has
      it grown; but it has germinated, it is growing; rooting itself
      into Tartarus, branching towards Heaven: the second season hence,
      we shall see it risen out of the bottomless Darkness, full-grown,
      into disastrous Twilight,—a Hemlock-tree, great as the world; on
      or under whose boughs all the People’s-friends of the world may
      lodge. “Two hundred and sixty thousand Aristocrat heads:” that is
      the precisest calculation, though one would not stand on a few
      hundreds; yet we never rise as high as the round three hundred
      thousand. Shudder at it, O People; but it is as true as that ye
      yourselves, and your People’s-friend, are alive. These prating
      Senators of yours hover ineffectual on the barren letter, and
      will never save the Revolution. A Cassandra-Marat cannot do it,
      with his single shrunk arm; but with a few determined men it were
      possible. ‘Give me,’ said the People’s-friend, in his cold way,
      when young Barbaroux, once his pupil in a course of what was
      called Optics, went to see him, ‘Give me two hundred Naples
      Bravoes, armed each with a good dirk, and a muff on his left arm
      by way of shield: with them I will traverse France, and
      accomplish the Revolution.’[268] Nay, be brave, young Barbaroux;
      for thou seest, there is no jesting in those rheumy eyes; in that
      soot-bleared figure, most earnest of created things; neither
      indeed is there madness, of the strait-waistcoat sort.

      Such produce shall the Time ripen in cavernous Marat, the man
      forbid; living in Paris cellars, lone as fanatic Anchorite in his
      Thebaid; say, as far-seen Simon on his Pillar,—taking peculiar
      views therefrom. Patriots may smile; and, using him as bandog now
      to be muzzled, now to be let bark, name him, as Desmoulins does,
      “Maximum of Patriotism” and “Cassandra-Marat:” but were it not
      singular if this dirk-and-muff plan of his (with superficial
      modifications) proved to be precisely the plan adopted?

      After this manner, in these circumstances, do august Senators
      regenerate France. Nay, they are, in very deed, _believed_ to be
      regenerating it; on account of which great fact, main fact of
      their history, the wearied eye can never be permitted wholly to
      ignore them.

      But, looking away now from these precincts of the Tuileries,
      where Constitutional Royalty, let Lafayette water it as he will,
      languishes too like a cut branch; and august Senators are perhaps
      at bottom only perfecting their “theory of defective verbs,”—how
      does the young Reality, young Sansculottism thrive? The attentive
      observer can answer: It thrives bravely; putting forth new buds;
      expanding the old buds into leaves, into boughs. Is not French
      Existence, as before, most prurient, all _loosened_, most
      nutrient for it? Sansculottism has the property of growing by
      what other things die of: by agitation, contention,
      disarrangement; nay in a word, by what is the symbol and fruit of
      all these: Hunger.

      In such a France as this, Hunger, as we have remarked, can hardly
      fail. The Provinces, the Southern Cities feel it in their turn;
      and what it brings: Exasperation, preternatural Suspicion. In
      Paris some halcyon days of abundance followed the Menadic
      Insurrection, with its Versailles grain-carts, and recovered
      Restorer of Liberty; but they could not continue. The month is
      still October when famishing Saint-Antoine, in a moment of
      passion, seizes a poor Baker, innocent “François the Baker;”[269]
      and hangs him, in Constantinople wise;—but even this, singular as
      it my seem, does not cheapen bread! Too clear it is, no Royal
      bounty, no Municipal dexterity can adequately feed a
      Bastille-destroying Paris. Wherefore, on view of the hanged
      Baker, Constitutionalism in sorrow and anger demands “_Loi
      Martiale_,” a kind of Riot Act;—and indeed gets it, most readily,
      almost before the sun goes down.

      This is that famed _Martial law_, with its Red Flag, its
      “_Drapeau Rouge:_” in virtue of which Mayor Bailly, or any Mayor,
      has but henceforth to hang out that new _Oriflamme_ of his; then
      to read or mumble something about the King’s peace; and, after
      certain pauses, serve any undispersing Assemblage with
      musket-shot, or whatever shot will disperse it. A decisive Law;
      and most just on one proviso: that all Patrollotism be of God,
      and all mob-assembling be of the Devil;—otherwise not so just.
      Mayor Bailly be unwilling to use it! Hang not out that new
      Oriflamme, _flame_ not _of gold_ but of the want of gold! The
      thrice-blessed Revolution is _done_, thou thinkest? If so it will
      be well with thee.

      But now let no mortal say henceforth that an august National
      Assembly wants riot: all it ever wanted was riot enough to
      balance Court-plotting; all it now wants, of Heaven or of Earth,
      is to get its theory of defective verbs perfected.


      Chapter 2.1.III.
      The Muster.

      With famine and a Constitutional theory of defective verbs going
      on, all other excitement is conceivable. A universal shaking and
      sifting of French Existence this is: in the course of which, for
      one thing, what a multitude of low-lying figures are sifted to
      the top, and set busily to work there!

      Dogleech Marat, now for-seen as Simon Stylites, we already know;
      him and others, raised aloft. The mere sample, these, of what is
      coming, of what continues coming, upwards from the realm of
      Night!—Chaumette, by and by Anaxagoras Chaumette, one already
      descries: mellifluous in street-groups; not now a sea-boy on the
      high and giddy mast: a mellifluous tribune of the common people,
      with long curling locks, on _bourne_stone of the thoroughfares;
      able sub-editor too; who shall rise—to the very gallows. Clerk
      Tallien, he also is become sub-editor; shall become able editor;
      and more. Bibliopolic Momoro, Typographic Pruhomme see new trades
      opening. Collot d’Herbois, tearing a passion to rags, pauses on
      the Thespian boards; listens, with that black bushy head, to the
      sound of the world’s drama: shall the Mimetic become Real? Did ye
      hiss him, O men of Lyons?[270] Better had ye clapped!

      Happy now, indeed, for all manner of _mimetic_, half-original
      men! Tumid blustering, with more or less of sincerity, which need
      not be entirely sincere, yet the sincerer the better, is like to
      go far. Shall we say, the Revolution-element works itself rarer
      and rarer; so that only lighter and lighter bodies will float in
      it; till at last the mere blown-bladder is your only swimmer?
      Limitation of mind, then vehemence, promptitude, audacity, shall
      all be available; to which add only these two: cunning and good
      lungs. Good fortune must be presupposed. Accordingly, of all
      classes the rising one, we observe, is now the Attorney class:
      witness Bazires, Carriers, Fouquier-Tinvilles, Bazoche-Captain
      Bourdons: more than enough. Such figures shall Night, from her
      wonder-bearing bosom, emit; swarm after swarm. Of another deeper
      and deepest swarm, not yet dawned on the astonished eye; of
      pilfering Candle-snuffers, Thief-valets, disfrocked Capuchins,
      and so many Héberts, Henriots, Ronsins, Rossignols, let us, as
      long as possible, forbear speaking.

      Thus, over France, all stirs that has what the Physiologists call
      _irritability_ in it: how much more all wherein irritability has
      perfected itself into vitality; into actual vision, and force
      that can will! All stirs; and if not in Paris, flocks thither.
      Great and greater waxes President Danton in his Cordeliers
      Section; his rhetorical tropes are all “gigantic:” energy flashes
      from his black brows, menaces in his athletic figure, rolls in
      the sound of his voice “reverberating from the domes;” this man
      also, like Mirabeau, has a natural _eye_, and begins to see
      whither Constitutionalism is tending, though with a wish in it
      different from Mirabeau’s.

      Remark, on the other hand, how General Dumouriez has quitted
      Normandy and the Cherbourg Breakwater, to come—whither we may
      guess. It is his second or even third trial at Paris, since this
      New Era began; but now it is in right earnest, for he has quitted
      all else. Wiry, elastic unwearied man; whose life was but a
      battle and a march! No, _not_ a creature of Choiseul’s; ‘the
      creature of God and of my sword,’—he fiercely answered in old
      days. Overfalling Corsican batteries, in the deadly fire-hail;
      wriggling invincible from under his horse, at Closterkamp of the
      Netherlands, though tethered with “crushed stirrup-iron and
      nineteen wounds;” tough, minatory, standing at bay, as forlorn
      hope, on the skirts of Poland; intriguing, battling in cabinet
      and field; roaming far out, obscure, as King’s spial, or sitting
      sealed up, enchanted in Bastille; fencing, pamphleteering,
      scheming and struggling from the very birth of him,[271]—the man
      has come thus far. How repressed, how irrepressible! Like some
      incarnate spirit in prison, which indeed he _was;_ hewing on
      granite walls for deliverance; striking fire flashes from them.
      And now has the general earthquake rent his cavern too? Twenty
      years younger, what might he not have done! But his hair has a
      shade of gray: his way of thought is all fixed, military. He can
      _grow_ no further, and the new world is in such growth. We will
      name him, on the whole, one of Heaven’s Swiss; without faith;
      wanting above all things work, work on _any_ side. Work also is
      appointed him; and he will do it.

      Not from over France only are the unrestful flocking towards
      Paris; but from all sides of Europe. Where the carcase is,
      thither will the eagles gather. Think how many a Spanish Guzman,
      Martinico Fournier named “Fournier _l’Américain_,” Engineer
      Miranda from the very Andes, were flocking or had flocked!
      Walloon Pereyra might boast of the strangest parentage: him, they
      say, Prince Kaunitz the Diplomatist heedlessly dropped;” like
      ostrich-egg, to be hatched of Chance—into an ostrich-_eater!_
      Jewish or German Freys do business in the great Cesspool of
      _Agio;_ which Cesspool this _Assignat_-fiat has quickened, into a
      Mother of dead dogs. Swiss Clavière could found no Socinian
      Genevese Colony in Ireland; but he paused, years ago, prophetic
      before the Minister’s Hôtel at Paris; and said, it was borne on
      his mind that _he_ one day was to be Minister, and laughed.[272]
      Swiss Pachc, on the other hand, sits sleekheaded, frugal; the
      wonder of his own alley, and even of neighbouring ones, for
      humility of mind, and a thought deeper than most men’s: sit
      there, Tartuffe, till wanted! Ye Italian Dufournys, Flemish
      Prolys, flit hither all ye bipeds of prey! Come whosesoever head
      is hot; thou of mind _ungoverned_, be it chaos as of
      undevelopment or chaos as of ruin; the man who cannot get known,
      the man who is too well known; if thou have any vendible faculty,
      nay if thou have but edacity and loquacity, come! They come; with
      hot unutterabilities in their heart; as Pilgrims towards a
      miraculous shrine. Nay how many come as vacant Strollers,
      aimless, of whom Europe is full merely towards _something!_ For
      benighted fowls, when you beat their bushes, rush towards any
      light. Thus Frederick Baron Trenck too is here; mazed, purblind,
      from the cells of Magdeburg; Minotauric cells, and his Ariadne
      lost! Singular to say, Trenck, in these years, sells wine; not
      indeed in bottle, but in wood.

      Nor is our England without her missionaries. She has her
      live-saving Needham;[273] to whom was solemnly presented a “civic
      sword,”—long since rusted into nothingness. Her Paine: rebellious
      Staymaker; unkempt; who feels that he, a single Needleman, did by
      his “_Common-Sense_” Pamphlet, free America;—that he can and will
      free all this World; perhaps even the other. Price-Stanhope
      Constitutional Association sends over to congratulate;[274]
      welcomed by National Assembly, though they are but a London Club;
      whom Burke and Toryism eye askance.

      On thee too, for country’s sake, O Chevalier John Paul, be a word
      spent, or misspent! In faded naval uniform, Paul Jones lingers
      visible here; like a wine-skin from which the wine is all drawn.
      Like the ghost of himself! Low is his once loud bruit; scarcely
      audible, save, with extreme tedium in ministerial ante-chambers;
      in this or the other charitable dining-room, mindful of the past.
      What changes; culminatings and declinings! Not now, poor Paul,
      thou lookest wistful over the Solway brine, by the foot of native
      Criffel, into blue mountainous Cumberland, into blue Infinitude;
      environed with thrift, with humble friendliness; thyself, young
      fool, longing to be aloft from it, or even to be away from it.
      Yes, beyond that sapphire Promontory, which men name St. Bees,
      which is not sapphire either, but dull sandstone, when one gets
      _close_ to it, there is a world. Which world thou too shalt taste
      of!—From yonder White Haven rise his smoke-clouds; ominous though
      ineffectual. Proud Forth quakes at his bellying sails; had not
      the wind suddenly shifted. Flamborough reapers, homegoing, pause
      on the hill-side: for what sulphur-cloud is that that defaces the
      sleek sea; sulphur-cloud spitting streaks of fire? A sea
      cockfight it is, and of the hottest; where British _Serapis_ and
      French-American _Bon Homme Richard_ do lash and throttle each
      other, in their fashion; and lo the desperate valour has
      suffocated the deliberate, and Paul Jones too is of the Kings of
      the Sea!

      The Euxine, the Méotian waters felt thee next, and long-skirted
      Turks, O Paul; and thy fiery soul has wasted itself in thousand
      contradictions;—to no purpose. For, in far lands, with scarlet
      Nassau-Siegens, with sinful Imperial Catherines, is not the
      heart-broken, even as at home with the mean? Poor Paul! hunger
      and dispiritment track thy sinking footsteps: once or at most
      twice, in this Revolution-tumult the figure of thee emerges;
      mute, ghost-like, as “with stars dim-twinkling through.” And
      then, when the light is gone quite out, a National Legislature
      grants “ceremonial funeral!” As good had been the natural
      Presbyterian Kirk-bell, and six feet of Scottish earth, among the
      dust of thy loved ones.—_Such_ world lay beyond the Promontory of
      St. Bees. Such is the life of sinful mankind here below.

      But of all strangers, far the notablest for us is Baron Jean
      Baptiste de Clootz;—or, dropping baptisms and feudalisms,
      World-Citizen Anacharsis Clootz, from Cleves. Him mark, judicious
      Reader. Thou hast known his Uncle, sharp-sighted thorough-going
      Cornelius de Pauw, who mercilessly cuts down cherished illusions;
      and of the finest antique Spartans, will make mere modern
      cutthroat Mainots.[275] The like stuff is in Anacharsis: hot
      metal; full of scoriae, which should and could have been smelted
      out, but which will not. He has wandered over this terraqueous
      Planet; seeking, one may say, the Paradise we lost long ago. He
      has seen English Burke; has been seen of the Portugal
      Inquisition; has roamed, and fought, and written; is writing,
      among other things, “Evidences of the _Mahometan_ Religion.” But
      now, like his Scythian adoptive godfather, he finds himself in
      the Paris Athens; surely, at last, the haven of his soul. A
      dashing man, beloved at Patriotic dinner-tables; with gaiety, nay
      with humour; headlong, trenchant, of free purse; in suitable
      costume; though what mortal ever more despised costumes? Under
      all costumes Anacharsis seeks the man; not Stylites Marat will
      more freely trample costumes, if they hold no man. This is the
      faith of Anacharsis: That there is a Paradise discoverable; that
      all costumes ought to hold men. O Anacharsis, it is a headlong,
      swift-going faith. Mounted thereon, meseems, thou art bound
      hastily for the City of _Nowhere;_ and wilt _arrive!_ At best, we
      may say, arrive _in good riding attitude;_ which indeed is
      something.

      So many new persons, and new things, have come to occupy this
      France. Her old Speech and Thought, and Activity which springs
      from those, are all changing; fermenting towards unknown issues.
      To the dullest peasant, as he sits sluggish, overtoiled, by his
      evening hearth, one idea has come: that of Châteaus burnt; of
      Châteaus combustible. How altered all Coffeehouses, in Province
      or Capital! The _Antre de Procope_ has now other questions than
      the Three Stagyrite Unities to settle; not theatre-controversies,
      but a world-controversy: there, in the ancient pigtail mode, or
      with modern Brutus’ heads, do well-frizzed logicians hold hubbub,
      and Chaos umpire sits. The ever-enduring Melody of Paris Saloons
      has got a new ground-tone: ever-enduring; which has been heard,
      and by the listening Heaven too, since Julian the Apostate’s time
      and earlier; mad now as formerly.

      Ex-Censor Suard, _Ex_-Censor, for we have freedom of the Press;
      he may be seen there; impartial, even neutral. Tyrant Grimm rolls
      large eyes, over a questionable coming Time. Atheist Naigeon,
      beloved disciple of Diderot, crows, in his small difficult way,
      heralding glad dawn.[276] But, on the other hand, how many
      Morellets, Marmontels, who had sat all their life hatching
      Philosophe eggs, cackle now, in a state bordering on distraction,
      at the brood they have brought out![277] It was so delightful to
      have one’s Philosophe Theorem demonstrated, crowned in the
      saloons: and now an infatuated people will not continue
      speculative, but have Practice?

      There also observe Preceptress Genlis, or Sillery, or
      Sillery-Genlis,—for our husband is both Count and Marquis, and we
      have more than one title. Pretentious, frothy; a puritan yet
      creedless; darkening counsel by words without wisdom! For, it is
      in that thin element of the Sentimentalist and
      Distinguished-Female that Sillery-Genlis works; she would gladly
      be sincere, yet can grow no sincerer than sincere-cant:
      sincere-cant of many forms, ending in the devotional form. For
      the present, on a neck still of moderate whiteness, she wears as
      jewel a miniature Bastille, cut on mere sandstone, but then
      actual Bastille sandstone. M. le Marquis is one of d’Orléans’s
      errandmen; in National Assembly, and elsewhere. Madame, for her
      part, trains up a youthful d’Orléans generation in what
      superfinest morality one can; gives meanwhile rather enigmatic
      account of fair Mademoiselle Pamela, the Daughter whom she has
      _adopted_. Thus she, in Palais Royal saloon;—whither, we remark,
      d’Orléans himself, spite of Lafayette, has returned from that
      English “mission” of his: surely no pleasant mission: for the
      English would not speak to him; and Saint Hannah More of England,
      so unlike Saint Sillery-Genlis of France, saw him shunned, in
      Vauxhall Gardens, like one pest-struck,[278] and his red-blue
      impassive visage waxing hardly a shade bluer.


      Chapter 2.1.IV.
      Journalism.

      As for Constitutionalism, with its National Guards, it is doing
      what it can; and has enough to do: it must, as ever, with one
      hand wave persuasively, repressing Patriotism; and keep the other
      clenched to menace Royalty plotters. A most delicate task;
      requiring tact.

      Thus, if People’s-friend Marat has today his writ of “_prise de
      corps_, or seizure of body,” served on him, and dives out of
      sight, tomorrow he is left at large; or is even encouraged, as a
      sort of bandog whose baying may be useful. President Danton, in
      open Hall, with reverberating voice, declares that, in a case
      like Marat’s, ‘force may be resisted by force.’ Whereupon the
      Chatelet serves Danton also with a writ;—which, however, as the
      whole Cordeliers District responds to it, what Constable will be
      prompt to execute? Twice more, on new occasions, does the
      Chatelet launch its writ; and twice more in vain: the body of
      Danton cannot be seized by Châtelet; he unseized, should he even
      fly for a season, shall behold the Châtelet itself flung into
      limbo.

      Municipality and Brissot, meanwhile, are far on with their
      Municipal Constitution. The Sixty _Districts_ shall become
      Forty-eight _Sections;_ much shall be adjusted, and Paris have
      its Constitution. A Constitution wholly Elective; as indeed all
      French Government shall and must be. And yet, one fatal element
      has been introduced: that of _citoyen actif_. No man who does not
      pay the _marc d’argent_, or yearly tax equal to three days’
      labour, shall be other than a _passive_ citizen: not the
      slightest vote for him; were he _acting_, all the year round,
      with sledge hammer, with forest-levelling axe! Unheard of! cry
      Patriot Journals. Yes truly, my Patriot Friends, if Liberty, the
      passion and prayer of all men’s souls, means Liberty to send your
      fifty-thousandth part of a new Tongue-fencer into National
      Debating-club, then, be the gods witness, ye are hardly
      entreated. Oh, if in National _Palaver_ (as the Africans name
      it), such blessedness is verily found, what tyrant would deny it
      to Son of Adam! Nay, might there not be a Female Parliament too,
      with “screams from the Opposition benches,” and “the honourable
      Member borne out in hysterics?” To a Children’s Parliament would
      I gladly consent; or even lower if ye wished it. Beloved
      Brothers! Liberty, one might fear, is actually, as the ancient
      wise men said, of Heaven. On this Earth, where, thinks the
      enlightened public, did a brave little Dame de Staal (not
      Necker’s Daughter, but a far shrewder than she) find the nearest
      approach to Liberty? After mature computation, cool as
      Dilworth’s, her answer is, _In the Bastille._[279] ‘Of Heaven?’
      answer many, asking. Wo that they should _ask;_ for that is the
      very misery! ‘Of Heaven’ means much; share in the National
      Palaver it may, or may as probably _not_ mean.

      One Sansculottic bough that cannot fail to flourish is
      Journalism. The voice of the People _being_ the voice of God,
      shall not such divine voice make itself heard? To the ends of
      France; and in as many dialects as when the _first_ great Babel
      was to be built! Some loud as the lion; some small as the sucking
      dove. Mirabeau himself has his instructive Journal or Journals,
      with Geneva hodmen working in them; and withal has quarrels
      enough with Dame le Jay, his Female Bookseller, so
      ultra-compliant otherwise.[280]

      _King’s-friend_ Royou still prints himself. Barrère sheds tears
      of loyal sensibility in _Break of Day_ Journal, though with
      declining sale. But why is Fréron so hot, democratic; Fréron, the
      King’s-friend’s Nephew? He has it by kind, that heat of his:
      _wasp_ Fréron begot him; Voltaire’s _Frélon;_ who fought
      stinging, while sting and poison-bag were left, were it only as
      Reviewer, and over Printed Waste-paper. Constant, illuminative,
      as the nightly lamplighter, issues the useful _Moniteur_, for it
      is now become diurnal: with facts and few commentaries; official,
      safe in the middle:—its able Editors sunk long since, recoverably
      or irrecoverably, in deep darkness. Acid Loustalot, with his
      “vigour,” as of young sloes, shall never ripen, but die untimely:
      his Prudhomme, however, will not let that _Révolutions de Paris_
      die; but edit it himself, with much else,—dull-blustering Printer
      though he be.

      Of Cassandra-Marat we have spoken often; yet the most surprising
      truth remains to be spoken: that he actually does not want sense;
      but, with croaking gelid throat, croaks out masses of the truth,
      on several things. Nay sometimes, one might almost fancy he had a
      perception of humour, and were laughing a little, far down in his
      inner man. Camille is wittier than ever, and more outspoken,
      cynical; yet sunny as ever. A light melodious creature; “born,”
      as he shall yet say with bitter tears, “to write verses;” light
      Apollo, so clear, soft-lucent, in this war of the Titans, wherein
      he shall not conquer!

      Folded and hawked Newspapers exist in all countries; but, in such
      a Journalistic element as this of France, other and stranger
      sorts are to be anticipated. What says the English reader to a
      _Journal-Affiche_, Placard Journal; legible to him that has no
      halfpenny; in bright prismatic colours, calling the eye from
      afar? Such, in the coming months, as Patriot Associations, public
      and private, advance, and can subscribe funds, shall plenteously
      hang themselves out: _leaves_, limed leaves, to catch what they
      can! The very Government shall have its Pasted Journal; Louvet,
      busy yet with a new “charming romance,” shall write
      _Sentinelles_, and post them with effect; nay Bertrand de
      Moleville, in his extremity, shall still more cunningly try
      it.[281] Great is Journalism. Is not every Able Editor a Ruler of
      the World, being a persuader of it; though self-elected, yet
      sanctioned, by the sale of his Numbers? Whom indeed the world has
      the readiest method of deposing, should need be: that of merely
      doing _nothing_ to him; which ends in starvation!

      Nor esteem it small what those Bill-stickers had to do in Paris:
      above Three Score of them: all with their crosspoles, haversacks,
      pastepots; nay with leaden badges, for the Municipality licenses
      them. A Sacred College, properly of World-rulers’ Heralds, though
      not respected as such, in an Era still incipient and raw. They
      made the walls of Paris didactic, suasive, with an ever fresh
      Periodical Literature, wherein he that ran might read: Placard
      Journals, Placard Lampoons, Municipal Ordinances, Royal
      Proclamations; the whole other or vulgar Placard-department
      super-added,—or omitted from contempt! What unutterable things
      the stone-walls spoke, during these five years! But it is all
      gone; Today swallowing Yesterday, and then being in its turn
      swallowed of Tomorrow, even as Speech ever is. Nay what, O thou
      immortal Man of Letters, is Writing itself but Speech conserved
      for a time? The Placard Journal conserved it for one day; some
      Books conserve it for the matter of ten years; nay some for three
      thousand: but what then? Why, _then_, the years being all run, it
      also dies, and the world is rid of it. Oh, were there not a
      spirit in the word of man, as in man himself, that survived the
      audible bodied word, and tended either Godward, or else Devilward
      for evermore, why should he trouble himself much with the truth
      of it, or the falsehood of it, except for commercial purposes?
      His immortality indeed, and whether it shall last half a
      lifetime, or a lifetime and half; is not that a very considerable
      thing? As mortality, was to the runaway, whom Great Fritz bullied
      back into the battle with a: ‘_R—, wollt ihr ewig leben_,
      Unprintable Off-scouring of Scoundrels, would ye live for ever!’

      This is the Communication of Thought: how happy when there is any
      Thought to communicate! Neither let the simpler old methods be
      neglected, in their sphere. The Palais-Royal Tent, a tyrannous
      Patrollotism has removed; but can it remove the lungs of man?
      Anaxagoras Chaumette we saw mounted on bourne-stones, while
      Tallien worked sedentary at the subeditorial desk. In any corner
      of the civilised world, a tub can be inverted, and an
      articulate-speaking biped mount thereon. Nay, with contrivance, a
      portable trestle, or folding-stool, can be procured, for love or
      money; this the peripatetic Orator can take in his hand, and,
      driven out here, set it up again there; saying mildly, with a
      Sage Bias, _Omnia mea mecum porto._

      Such is Journalism, hawked, pasted, spoken. How changed since One
      old Métra walked this same Tuileries Garden, in gilt cocked hat,
      with Journal at his nose, or held loose-folded behind his back;
      and was a notability of Paris, “Métra the Newsman;”[282] and
      Louis himself was wont to say: _Qu’en dit Métra?_ Since the first
      Venetian News-sheet was sold for a _gazza_, or farthing, and
      named _Gazette!_ We live in a fertile world.


      Chapter 2.1.V.
      Clubbism.

      Where the heart is full, it seeks, for a thousand reasons, in a
      thousand ways, to impart itself. How sweet, indispensable, in
      such cases, is fellowship; soul mystically strengthening soul!
      The meditative Germans, some think, have been of opinion that
      Enthusiasm in the general means simply excessive
      Congregating—_Schwärmerey_, or _Swarming_. At any rate, do we not
      see glimmering half-red embers, if laid _together_, get into the
      brightest white glow?

      In such a France, gregarious Reunions will needs multiply,
      intensify; French Life will step out of doors, and, from
      domestic, become a public Club Life. Old Clubs, which already
      germinated, grow and flourish; new every where bud forth. It is
      the sure symptom of Social Unrest: in such way, most infallibly
      of all, does Social Unrest exhibit itself; find solacement, and
      also nutriment. In every French head there hangs now, whether for
      terror or for hope, some prophetic picture of a New France:
      prophecy which brings, nay which almost is, its own fulfilment;
      and in all ways, consciously and unconsciously, works towards
      that.

      Observe, moreover, how the Aggregative Principle, let it be but
      deep enough, goes on aggregating, and this even in a geometrical
      progression: how when the whole world, in such a plastic time, is
      forming itself into Clubs, some One Club, the strongest or
      luckiest, shall, by friendly attracting, by victorious
      compelling, grow ever stronger, till it become immeasurably
      strong; and all the others, with their strength, be either
      lovingly absorbed into it, or hostilely abolished by it! This if
      the Club-spirit is universal; if the time _is_ plastic. Plastic
      enough is the time, universal the Club-spirit: such an all
      absorbing, paramount One Club cannot be wanting.

      What a progress, since the first salient-point of the Breton
      Committee! It worked long in secret, not languidly; it has come
      with the National Assembly to Paris; calls itself _Club;_ calls
      itself in imitation, as is thought, of those generous
      Price-Stanhope English, _French Revolution Club;_ but soon, with
      more originality, _Club of Friends of the Constitution._ Moreover
      it has leased, for itself, at a fair rent, the Hall of the
      Jacobin’s Convent, one of our “superfluous edifices;” and does
      therefrom now, in these spring months, begin shining out on an
      admiring Paris. And so, by degrees, under the shorter popular
      title of _Jacobins’ Club_, it shall become memorable to all times
      and lands. Glance into the interior: strongly yet modestly
      benched and seated; as many as Thirteen Hundred chosen Patriots;
      Assembly Members not a few. Barnave, the two Lameths are seen
      there; occasionally Mirabeau, perpetually Robespierre; also the
      ferret-visage of Fouquier-Tinville with other attorneys;
      Anacharsis of Prussian Scythia, and miscellaneous
      Patriots,—though all is yet in the most perfectly clean-washed
      state; decent, nay dignified. President on platform, President’s
      bell are not wanting; oratorical Tribune high-raised; nor
      strangers’ galleries, wherein also sit women. Has any French
      Antiquarian Society preserved that written Lease of the Jacobins
      Convent Hall? Or was it, unluckier even than Magna Charta,
      _clipt_ by sacrilegious Tailors? Universal History is not
      indifferent to it.

      These Friends of the Constitution have met mainly, as their name
      may foreshadow, to look after Elections when an Election comes,
      and procure fit men; but likewise to consult generally that the
      Commonweal take no damage; one as yet sees not how. For indeed
      let two or three gather together any where, if it be not in
      Church, where all are bound to the _passive_ state; no mortal can
      say accurately, themselves as little as any, for _what_ they are
      gathered. How often has the broached barrel proved not to be for
      joy and heart effusion, but for duel and head-breakage; and the
      promised feast become a Feast of the Lapithae! This Jacobins
      Club, which at first shone resplendent, and was thought to be a
      new celestial Sun for enlightening the Nations, had, as things
      all have, to work through its appointed phases: it burned
      unfortunately more and more lurid, more sulphurous,
      distracted;—and swam at last, through the astonished Heaven, like
      a Tartarean Portent, and lurid-burning Prison of Spirits in Pain.

      Its style of eloquence? Rejoice, Reader, that thou knowest it
      not, that thou canst never perfectly know. The Jacobins published
      a Journal of Debates, where they that have the heart may examine:
      Impassioned, full-droning Patriotic-eloquence; implacable,
      unfertile—save for Destruction, which was indeed its work: most
      wearisome, though most deadly. Be thankful that Oblivion covers
      so much; that all carrion is by and by buried in the green
      Earth’s bosom, and even makes her grow the greener. The Jacobins
      are buried; but their work is not; it continues “making the tour
      of the world,” as it can. It might be seen lately, for instance,
      with bared bosom and death-defiant eye, as far on as Greek
      Missolonghi; and, strange enough, old slumbering Hellas was
      resuscitated, into _somnambulism_ which will become clear
      wakefulness, by a voice from the Rue St. Honoré! All dies, as we
      often say; except the spirit of man, of what man _does_. Thus has
      not the very House of the Jacobins vanished; scarcely lingering
      in a few old men’s memories? The St. Honoré Market has brushed it
      away, and now where dull-droning eloquence, like a Trump of Doom,
      once shook the world, there is pacific chaffering for poultry and
      greens. The sacred National Assembly Hall itself has become
      common ground; President’s platform permeable to wain and
      dustcart; for the Rue de Rivoli runs there. Verily, at Cockcrow
      (of this Cock or the other), _all_ Apparitions do melt and
      dissolve in space.

      The Paris _Jacobins_ became “the Mother-Society, _Société-Mère;_”
      and had as many as “three hundred” shrill-tongued daughters in
      “direct correspondence” with her. Of indirectly corresponding,
      what we may call grand-daughters and minute progeny, she counted
      “forty-four thousand!”—But for the present we note only two
      things: the first of them a mere anecdote. One night, a couple of
      brother Jacobins are doorkeepers; for the members take this post
      of duty and honour in rotation, and admit none that have not
      tickets: one doorkeeper was the worthy Sieur Laïs, a patriotic
      Opera-singer, stricken in years, whose windpipe is long since
      closed without result; the other, young, and named Louis
      Philippe, D’Orléans’s firstborn, has in this latter time, after
      unheard-of destinies, become Citizen-King, and struggles to rule
      for a season. All-flesh is grass; higher reedgrass or creeping
      herb.

      The second thing we have to note is historical: that the
      Mother-Society, even in this its effulgent period, cannot content
      all Patriots. Already it must throw off, so to speak, two
      dissatisfied swarms; a swarm to the right, a swarm to the left.
      One party, which thinks the Jacobins lukewarm, constitutes itself
      into _Club of the Cordeliers;_ a hotter Club: it is Danton’s
      element: with whom goes Desmoulins. The other party, again, which
      thinks the Jacobins scalding-hot, flies off to the right, and
      becomes “Club of 1789, Friends of the _Monarchic_ Constitution.”
      They are afterwards named “_Feuillans Club;_” their place of
      meeting being the Feuillans Convent. Lafayette is, or becomes,
      their chief-man; supported by the respectable Patriot everywhere,
      by the mass of Property and Intelligence,—with the most
      flourishing prospects. They, in these June days of 1790, do, in
      the Palais Royal, dine solemnly with open windows; to the cheers
      of the people; with toasts, with inspiriting songs,—with one song
      at least, among the feeblest ever sung.[283] They shall, in due
      time be hooted forth, over the borders, into Cimmerian Night.

      Another expressly Monarchic or Royalist Club, “_Club des
      Monarchiens_,” though a Club of ample funds, and all sitting in
      damask sofas, cannot realise the smallest momentary cheer;
      realises only scoffs and groans;—till, ere long, certain Patriots
      in disorderly sufficient number, proceed thither, for a night or
      for nights, and groan it out of pain. Vivacious alone shall the
      Mother-Society and her family be. The very Cordeliers may, as it
      were, return into her bosom, which will have grown warm enough.

      Fatal-looking! Are not such Societies an incipient New Order of
      Society itself? The Aggregative Principle anew at work in a
      Society grown obsolete, cracked asunder, dissolving into rubbish
      and primary atoms?


      Chapter 2.1.VI.
      Je le jure.

      With these signs of the times, is it not surprising that the
      dominant feeling all over France was still continually Hope? O
      blessed Hope, sole boon of man; whereby, on his strait prison
      walls, are painted beautiful far-stretching landscapes; and into
      the night of very Death is shed holiest dawn! Thou art to all an
      indefeasible possession in this God’s-world: to the wise a sacred
      Constantine’s-banner, written on the eternal skies; under which
      they _shall_ conquer, for the battle itself is victory: to the
      foolish some secular _mirage_, or shadow of still waters, painted
      on the parched Earth; whereby at least their dusty pilgrimage, if
      devious, becomes cheerfuller, becomes possible.

      In the death-tumults of a sinking Society, French Hope sees only
      the birth-struggles of a new unspeakably better Society; and
      sings, with full assurance of faith, her brisk Melody, which some
      inspired fiddler has in these very days composed for her,—the
      world-famous _Ça-ira_. Yes; “that will go:” and then there will
      _come—?_ All men hope: even Marat hopes—that Patriotism will take
      muff and dirk. King Louis is not without hope: in the chapter of
      chances; in a flight to some Bouillé; in getting popularized at
      Paris. But what a hoping People he had, judge by the fact, and
      series of facts, now to be noted.

      Poor Louis, meaning the best, with little insight and even less
      determination of his own, has to follow, in that dim wayfaring of
      his, such signal as may be given him; by backstairs Royalism, by
      official or backstairs Constitutionalism, whichever for the month
      may have convinced the royal mind. If flight to Bouillé, and
      (horrible to think!) a drawing of the civil sword do hang as
      theory, portentous in the background, much nearer is this fact of
      these Twelve Hundred Kings, who sit in the _Salle de Manége_.
      Kings uncontrollable by him, not yet irreverent to him. Could
      kind management of these but prosper, how much better were it
      than armed Emigrants, Turin-intrigues, and the help of Austria!
      Nay, are the _two_ hopes inconsistent? Rides in the suburbs, we
      have found, cost little; yet they always brought _vivats_.[284]
      Still cheaper is a soft word; such as has many times turned away
      wrath. In these rapid days, while France is all getting divided
      into Departments, Clergy about to be remodelled, Popular
      Societies rising, and Feudalism and so much ever is ready to be
      hurled into the melting-pot,—might one not try?

      On the 4th of February, accordingly, M. le Président reads to his
      National Assembly a short autograph, announcing that his Majesty
      will step over, quite in an unceremonious way, probably about
      noon. Think, therefore, Messieurs, what it may mean; especially,
      how ye will get the Hall decorated a little. The Secretaries’
      Bureau can be shifted down from the platform; on the President’s
      chair be slipped this cover of velvet, “of a violet colour
      sprigged with gold fleur-de-lys;”—for indeed M. le Président has
      had previous notice underhand, and taken counsel with Doctor
      Guillotin. Then some fraction of “velvet carpet,” of like texture
      and colour, cannot that be spread in front of the chair, where
      the Secretaries usually sit? So has judicious Guillotin advised:
      and the effect is found satisfactory. Moreover, as it is probable
      that his Majesty, in spite of the fleur-de-lys-velvet, will stand
      and not sit at all, the President himself, in the interim,
      presides standing. And so, while some honourable Member is
      discussing, say, the division of a Department, Ushers announce:
      ‘His Majesty!’ In person, with small suite, enter Majesty: the
      honourable Member stops short; the Assembly starts to its feet;
      the Twelve Hundred Kings “almost all,” and the Galleries no less,
      do welcome the Restorer of French Liberty with loyal shouts. His
      Majesty’s Speech, in diluted conventional phraseology, expresses
      this mainly: That he, most of all Frenchmen, rejoices to see
      France getting regenerated; is sure, at the same time, that they
      will deal gently with her in the process, and not regenerate her
      _roughly_. Such was his Majesty’s Speech: the feat he performed
      was coming to speak it, and going back again.

      Surely, except to a very hoping People, there was not much here
      to build upon. Yet what did they not build! The fact that the
      King has spoken, that he has voluntarily come to speak, how
      inexpressibly encouraging! Did not the glance of his royal
      countenance, like concentrated sunbeams, kindle all hearts in an
      august Assembly; nay thereby in an inflammable enthusiastic
      France? To move “Deputation of thanks” can be the happy lot of
      but one man; to go in such Deputation the lot of not many. The
      Deputed have gone, and returned with what highest-flown
      compliment they could; whom also the Queen met, Dauphin in hand.
      And still do not our hearts burn with insatiable gratitude; and
      to one other man a still higher blessedness suggests itself: To
      move that we all renew the National Oath.

      Happiest honourable Member, with his word so in season as word
      seldom was; magic Fugleman of a whole National Assembly, which
      sat there bursting to do somewhat; Fugleman of a whole onlooking
      France! The President swears; declares that every one shall
      swear, in distinct _je le jure_. Nay the very Gallery sends him
      down a written slip signed, with their Oath on it; and as the
      Assembly now casts an eye that way, the Gallery all stands up and
      swears again. And then out of doors, consider at the
      Hôtel-de-Ville how Bailly, the great Tennis-Court swearer, again
      swears, towards nightful, with all the Municipals, and Heads of
      Districts assembled there. And “M. Danton suggests that the
      public would like to partake:” whereupon Bailly, with escort of
      Twelve, steps forth to the great outer staircase; sways the
      ebullient multitude with stretched hand: takes their oath, with a
      thunder of “rolling drums,” with shouts that rend the welkin. And
      on all streets the glad people, with moisture and fire in their
      eyes, “spontaneously formed groups, and swore one
      another,”[285]—and the whole City was illuminated. This was the
      Fourth of February 1790: a day to be marked white in
      Constitutional annals.

      Nor is the illumination for a night only, but partially or
      totally it lasts a series of nights. For each District, the
      Electors of each District, will swear specially; and always as
      the District swears; it illuminates itself. Behold them, District
      after District, in some open square, where the Non-Electing
      People can all see and join: with their uplifted right hands, and
      _je le jure:_ with rolling drums, with embracings, and that
      infinite hurrah of the enfranchised,—which any tyrant that there
      may be can consider! Faithful to the King, to the Law, to the
      Constitution which the National Assembly _shall_ make.

      Fancy, for example, the Professors of Universities parading the
      streets with their young France, and swearing, in an enthusiastic
      manner, not without tumult. By a larger exercise of fancy, expand
      duly this little word: The like was repeated in every Town and
      District of France! Nay one Patriot Mother, in Lagnon of
      Brittany, assembles her ten children; and, with her own aged
      hand, swears them all herself, the highsouled venerable woman. Of
      all which, moreover, a National Assembly must be eloquently
      apprised. Such three weeks of swearing! Saw the sun ever such a
      swearing people? Have they been bit by a swearing tarantula? No:
      but they are men and Frenchmen; they have Hope; and, singular to
      say, they have Faith, were it only in the Gospel according to
      Jean Jacques. O my Brothers! would to Heaven it were even as ye
      think and have sworn! But there are Lovers’ Oaths, which, had
      they been true as love itself, _cannot_ be kept; not to speak of
      Dicers’ Oaths, also a known sort.


      Chapter 2.1.VII.
      Prodigies.

      To such length had the _Contrat Social_ brought it, in believing
      hearts. Man, as is well said, lives by faith; each generation has
      its own faith, more or less; and laughs at the faith of its
      predecessor,—most unwisely. Grant indeed that this faith in the
      Social Contract belongs to the stranger sorts; that an unborn
      generation may very wisely, if not laugh, yet stare at it, and
      piously consider. For, alas, what is _Contrat?_ If all men were
      such that a mere spoken or sworn Contract would bind them, all
      men were then true men, and Government a superfluity. Not what
      thou and I have promised to each other, but what the balance of
      our forces can make us perform to each other: that, in so sinful
      a world as ours, is the thing to be counted on. But above all, a
      People and a Sovereign promising to one another; as if a whole
      People, changing from generation to generation, nay from hour to
      hour, could ever by any method be made to _speak_ or promise; and
      to speak mere solecisms:‘We, be the Heavens witness, which
      Heavens however do no miracles now; we, ever-changing Millions,
      will _allow_ thee, changeful Unit, to _force_ us or govern us!’
      The world has perhaps seen few faiths comparable to that.

      So nevertheless had the world then construed the matter. Had they
      _not_ so construed it, how different had their hopes been, their
      attempts, their results! But so and not otherwise did the Upper
      Powers will it to be. Freedom by Social Contract: such was verily
      the Gospel of that Era. And all men had believed in it, as in a
      Heaven’s Glad-tidings men should; and with overflowing heart and
      uplifted voice clave to it, and stood fronting Time and Eternity
      on it. Nay smile not; or only with a smile sadder than tears!
      This too was a better faith than the one it had replaced: than
      faith merely in the Everlasting Nothing and man’s Digestive
      Power; lower than _which_ no faith can go.

      Not that such universally prevalent, universally jurant, feeling
      of Hope, could be a unanimous one. Far from that! The time was
      ominous: social dissolution near and certain; social renovation
      still a problem, difficult and distant even though sure. But if
      ominous to some clearest onlooker, whose faith stood not with one
      side or with the other, nor in the ever-vexed jarring of Greek
      with Greek at all,—how unspeakably ominous to dim Royalist
      participators; for whom Royalism was Mankind’s palladium; for
      whom, with the abolition of Most-Christian Kingship and
      Most-Talleyrand Bishopship, all loyal obedience, all religious
      faith was to expire, and final Night envelope the Destinies of
      Man! On serious hearts, of that persuasion, the matter sinks down
      deep; prompting, as we have seen, to backstairs Plots, to
      Emigration with pledge of war, to Monarchic Clubs; nay to still
      madder things.

      The Spirit of Prophecy, for instance, had been considered extinct
      for some centuries: nevertheless these last-times, as indeed is
      the tendency of last-times, do revive it; that so, of French mad
      things, we might have sample also of the maddest. In remote rural
      districts, whither Philosophism has not yet radiated, where a
      heterodox Constitution of the Clergy is bringing strife round the
      altar itself, and the very Church-bells are getting melted into
      small money-coin, it appears probable that the End of the World
      cannot be far off. Deep-musing atrabiliar old men, especially old
      women, hint in an obscure way that they know what they know. The
      Holy Virgin, silent so long, has not gone dumb;—and truly now, if
      ever more in this world, were the time for her to speak. One
      Prophetess, though careless Historians have omitted her name,
      condition, and whereabout, becomes audible to the general ear;
      credible to not a few: credible to Friar Gerle, poor Patriot
      Chartreux, in the National Assembly itself! She, in Pythoness’
      recitative, with wildstaring eye, sings that there shall be a
      Sign; that the heavenly Sun himself will hang out a Sign, or
      Mock-Sun,—which, many say, shall be stamped with the Head of
      hanged Favras. List, Dom Gerle, with that poor addled poll of
      thine; list, O list;—and hear nothing.[286]

      Notable however was that “magnetic vellum, _vélin magnétique_,”
      of the Sieurs d’Hozier and Petit-Jean, Parlementeers of Rouen.
      Sweet young d’Hozier, “bred in the faith of his Missal, and of
      parchment genealogies,” and of parchment generally: adust,
      melancholic, middle-aged Petit-Jean: why came these two to
      Saint-Cloud, where his Majesty was hunting, on the festival of
      St. Peter and St. Paul; and waited there, in antechambers, a
      wonder to whispering Swiss, the livelong day; and even waited
      without the Grates, when turned out; and had dismissed their
      valets to Paris, as with purpose of endless waiting? They have a
      _magnetic vellum_, these two; whereon the Virgin, wonderfully
      clothing herself in Mesmerean Cagliostric Occult-Philosophy, has
      inspired them to jot down instructions and predictions for a
      much-straitened King. To whom, by Higher Order, they will this
      day present it; and save the Monarchy and World. Unaccountable
      pair of visual-objects! Ye should be men, and of the Eighteenth
      Century; but your magnetic vellum forbids us so to interpret.
      Say, are ye aught? Thus ask the Guardhouse Captains, the Mayor of
      St. Cloud; nay, at great length, thus asks the Committee of
      Researches, and not the Municipal, but the National Assembly one.
      No distinct answer, for weeks. At last it becomes plain that the
      right answer is _negative_. Go, ye Chimeras, with your magnetic
      vellum; sweet young Chimera, adust middle-aged one! The
      Prison-doors are open. Hardly again shall ye preside the Rouen
      Chamber of Accounts; but vanish obscurely into Limbo.[287]


      Chapter 2.1.VIII.
      Solemn League and Covenant.

      Such dim masses, and specks of even deepest black, work in that
      white-hot glow of the French mind, now wholly in fusion, and
      _con_fusion. Old women here swearing their ten children on the
      new Evangel of Jean Jacques; old women there looking up for
      Favras’ Heads in the celestial Luminary: these _are_
      preternatural signs, prefiguring somewhat.

      In fact, to the Patriot children of Hope themselves, it is
      undeniable that difficulties exist: emigrating Seigneurs;
      Parlements in sneaking but most malicious mutiny (though the rope
      is round their neck); above all, the most decided “deficiency of
      grains.” Sorrowful: but, to a Nation that hopes, not
      irremediable. To a Nation which is in fusion and ardent communion
      of thought; which, for example, on signal of one Fugleman, will
      lift its right hand like a drilled regiment, and swear and
      illuminate, till every village from Ardennes to the Pyrenees has
      rolled its village-drum, and sent up its little oath, and glimmer
      of tallow-illumination some fathoms into the reign of Night!

      If grains are defective, the fault is not of Nature or National
      Assembly, but of Art and Antinational Intriguers. Such malign
      individuals, of the scoundrel species, have power to vex us,
      while the Constitution is a-making. Endure it, ye heroic
      Patriots: nay rather, why not cure it? Grains do grow, they lie
      extant there in sheaf or sack; only that regraters and Royalist
      plotters, to provoke the people into illegality, obstruct the
      transport of grains. Quick, ye organised Patriot Authorities,
      armed National Guards, meet together; unite your goodwill; in
      union is tenfold strength: let the concentred flash of your
      Patriotism strike stealthy Scoundrelism blind, paralytic, as with
      a _coup de soleil._

      Under which hat or nightcap of the Twenty-five millions, this
      pregnant Idea first rose, for in some one head it did rise, no
      man can now say. A most small idea, near at hand for the whole
      world: but a living one, fit; and which waxed, whether into
      greatness or not, into immeasurable size. When a Nation is in
      this state that the Fugleman can operate on it, what will the
      word in season, the act in season, not do! It will grow verily,
      like the Boy’s Bean in the Fairy-Tale, heaven-high, with
      habitations and adventures on it, in one night. It is
      nevertheless unfortunately still a Bean (for your long-lived Oak
      grows _not_ so); and, the next night, it may lie felled,
      horizontal, trodden into common mud.—But remark, at least, how
      natural to any agitated Nation, which has Faith, this business of
      Covenanting is. The Scotch, believing in a righteous Heaven above
      them, and also in a Gospel, far other than the Jean-Jacques one,
      swore, in their extreme need, a Solemn League and Covenant,—as
      Brothers on the forlorn-hope, and imminence of battle, who
      embrace looking Godward; and got the whole Isle to swear it; and
      even, in their tough Old-Saxon Hebrew-Presbyterian way, to keep
      it more or less;—for the thing, as such things are, was heard in
      Heaven, and partially ratified there; neither is it yet dead, if
      thou wilt look, nor like to die. The French too, with their
      Gallic-Ethnic excitability and effervescence, have, as we have
      seen, real Faith, of a sort; they are hard bestead, though in the
      middle of Hope: a National Solemn League and Covenant there may
      be in France too; under how different conditions; with how
      different developement and issue!

      Note, accordingly, the small commencement; first spark of a
      mighty firework: for if the particular _hat_ cannot be fixed
      upon, the particular District can. On the 29th day of last
      November, were National Guards by the thousand seen filing, from
      far and near, with military music, with Municipal officers in
      tricolor sashes, towards and along the Rhone-stream, to the
      little town of Etoile. There with ceremonial evolution and
      manœuvre, with fanfaronading, musketry-salvoes, and what else the
      Patriot genius could devise, they made oath and obtestation to
      stand faithfully by one another, under Law and King; in
      particular, to have all manner of grains, while grains there
      were, freely circulated, in spite both of robber and regrater.
      This was the meeting of Etoile, in the mild end of November 1789.

      But now, if a mere empty Review, followed by Review-dinner, ball,
      and such gesticulation and flirtation as there may be, interests
      the happy County-town, and makes it the envy of surrounding
      County-towns, how much more might this! In a fortnight, larger
      Montélimart, half ashamed of itself, will do as good, and better.
      On the Plain of Montélimart, or what is equally sonorous, “under
      the Walls of Montélimart,” the thirteenth of December sees new
      gathering and obtestation; six thousand strong; and now indeed,
      with these three remarkable improvements, as unanimously resolved
      on there. First that the men of Montélimart do federate with the
      already federated men of Etoile. Second, that, implying not
      expressing the circulation of grain, they “swear in the face of
      God and their Country” with much more emphasis and
      comprehensiveness, “to obey all decrees of the National Assembly,
      and see them obeyed, till death, _jusqu’à la mort_.” Third, and
      most important, that official record of all this be solemnly
      delivered in to the National Assembly, to M. de Lafayette, and
      “to the Restorer of French Liberty;” who shall all take what
      comfort from it they can. Thus does larger Montélimart vindicate
      its Patriot importance, and maintain its rank in the municipal
      scale.[288]

      And so, with the New-year, the signal is hoisted; for is not a
      National Assembly, and solemn deliverance there, at lowest a
      National Telegraph? Not only grain shall circulate, while there
      is grain, on highways or the Rhone-waters, over all that
      South-Eastern region,—where also if Monseigneur d’Artois saw good
      to break in from Turin, hot welcome might wait him; but
      whatsoever Province of France is straitened for grain, or vexed
      with a mutinous Parlement, unconstitutional plotters, Monarchic
      Clubs, or any other Patriot ailment,—can go and do likewise, or
      even do better. And now, especially, when the February swearing
      has set them all agog! From Brittany to Burgundy, on most plains
      of France, under most City-walls, it is a blaring of trumpets,
      waving of banners, a constitutional manœuvring: under the vernal
      skies, while Nature too is putting forth her green Hopes, under
      bright sunshine defaced by the stormful East; like Patriotism
      victorious, though with difficulty, over Aristocracy and defect
      of grain! There march and constitutionally wheel, to the
      _ça-ira_-ing mood of fife and drum, under their tricolor
      Municipals, our clear-gleaming Phalanxes; or halt, with uplifted
      right-hand, and artillery-salvoes that imitate Jove’s thunder;
      and all the Country, and metaphorically all “the Universe,” is
      looking on. Wholly, in their best apparel, brave men, and
      beautifully dizened women, most of whom have lovers there;
      swearing, by the eternal Heavens and this green-growing
      all-nutritive Earth, that France is free!

      Sweetest days, when (astonishing to say) mortals have actually
      met together in communion and fellowship; and man, were it only
      once through long despicable centuries, is for moments verily the
      brother of man!—And then the Deputations to the National
      Assembly, with highflown descriptive harangue; to M. de
      Lafayette, and the Restorer; very frequently moreover to the
      Mother of Patriotism sitting on her stout benches in that Hall of
      the Jacobins! The general ear is filled with Federation. New
      names of Patriots emerge, which shall one day become familiar:
      Boyer-Fonfrede eloquent denunciator of a rebellious Bourdeaux
      Parlement; Max Isnard eloquent reporter of the Federation of
      Draguignan; eloquent pair, separated by the whole breadth of
      France, who are nevertheless to meet. Ever wider burns the flame
      of Federation; ever wider and also brighter. Thus the Brittany
      and Anjou brethren mention a Fraternity of _all_ true Frenchmen;
      and go the length of invoking “perdition and death” on any
      renegade: moreover, if in their National-Assembly harangue, they
      glance plaintively at the _marc d’argent_ which makes so many
      citizens _passive_, they, over in the Mother-Society, ask, being
      henceforth themselves “neither Bretons nor Angevins but French,”
      Why all France has not one Federation, and universal Oath of
      Brotherhood, once for all?[289] A most pertinent suggestion;
      dating from the end of March. Which pertinent suggestion the
      whole Patriot world cannot but catch, and reverberate and agitate
      till it become _loud;_—which, in that case, the Townhall
      Municipals had better take up, and meditate.

      Some universal Federation seems inevitable: the Where is given;
      clearly Paris: only the When, the How? These also productive Time
      will give; is already giving. For always as the Federative work
      goes on, it perfects itself, and Patriot genius adds contribution
      after contribution. Thus, at Lyons, in the end of the May month,
      we behold as many as fifty, or some say sixty thousand, met to
      federate; and a multitude looking on, which it would be difficult
      to number. From dawn to dusk! For our Lyons Guardsmen took rank,
      at five in the bright dewy morning; came pouring in,
      bright-gleaming, to the Quai de Rhone, to march thence to the
      Federation-field; amid wavings of hats and lady-handkerchiefs;
      glad shoutings of some two hundred thousand Patriot voices and
      hearts; the beautiful and brave! Among whom, courting no notice,
      and yet the notablest of all, what queenlike Figure is this; with
      her escort of house-friends and Champagneux the Patriot Editor;
      come abroad with the earliest? Radiant with enthusiasm are those
      dark eyes, is that strong Minerva-face, looking dignity and
      earnest joy; joyfullest she where all are joyful. It is Roland de
      la Platrière’s Wife![290] Strict elderly Roland, King’s Inspector
      of Manufactures here; and now likewise, by popular choice, the
      strictest of our new Lyons Municipals: a man who has gained much,
      if worth and faculty be gain; but above all things, has gained to
      wife Phlipon the Paris Engraver’s daughter. Reader, mark that
      queenlike burgher-woman: beautiful, Amazonian-graceful to the
      eye; more so to the mind. Unconscious of her worth (as all worth
      is), of her greatness, of her crystal clearness; genuine, the
      creature of Sincerity and Nature, in an age of Artificiality,
      Pollution and Cant; there, in her still completeness, in her
      still invincibility, _she_, if thou knew it, is the noblest of
      all living Frenchwomen,—and will be seen, one day. O blessed
      rather while unseen, even of herself! For the present she gazes,
      nothing doubting, into this grand theatricality; and thinks her
      young dreams are to be fulfilled.

      From dawn to dusk, as we said, it lasts; and truly a sight like
      few. Flourishes of drums and trumpets are something: but think of
      an “artificial Rock fifty feet high,” all cut into crag-steps,
      not without the similitude of “shrubs!” The interior cavity, for
      in sooth it is made of deal,—stands solemn, a “Temple of
      Concord:” on the outer summit rises “a Statue of Liberty,”
      colossal, seen for miles, with her Pike and Phrygian Cap, and
      civic column; at her feet a Country’s Altar, “_Autel de la
      Patrie:_”—on all which neither deal-timber nor lath and plaster,
      with paint of various colours, have been spared. But fancy then
      the banners all placed on the steps of the Rock; high-mass
      chaunted; and the civic oath of fifty thousand: with what
      volcanic outburst of sound from iron and other throats, enough to
      frighten back the very Saone and Rhone; and how the brightest
      fireworks, and balls, and even repasts closed in that night of
      the gods![291] And so the Lyons Federation vanishes too,
      swallowed of darkness;—and yet not wholly, for our brave fair
      Roland was there; also she, though in the deepest privacy, writes
      her Narrative of it in Champagneux’s _Courier de Lyons;_ a piece
      which “circulates to the extent of sixty thousand;” which one
      would like now to read.

      But on the whole, Paris, we may see, will have little to devise;
      will only have to borrow and apply. And then as to the day, what
      day of all the calendar is fit, if the Bastille Anniversary be
      not? The particular spot too, it is easy to see, must be the
      Champ-de-Mars; where many a Julian the Apostate has been lifted
      on bucklers, to France’s or the world’s sovereignty; and iron
      Franks, loud-clanging, have responded to the voice of a
      Charlemagne; and from of old mere sublimities have been familiar.


      Chapter 2.1.IX.
      Symbolic.

      How natural, in all decisive circumstances, is Symbolic
      Representation to all kinds of men! Nay, what is man’s whole
      terrestrial Life but a Symbolic Representation, and making
      visible, of the Celestial invisible Force that is in him? By act
      and word he strives to do it; with sincerity, if possible;
      failing that, with theatricality, which latter also may have its
      meaning. An Almack’s Masquerade is not nothing; in more genial
      ages, your Christmas Guisings, Feasts of the Ass, Abbots of
      Unreason, were a considerable something: since sport they were;
      as Almacks may still be sincere wish for sport. But what, on the
      other hand, must not sincere earnest have been: say, a Hebrew
      Feast of Tabernacles have been! A whole Nation gathered, in the
      name of the Highest, under the eye of the Highest; imagination
      herself flagging under the reality; and all noblest Ceremony as
      yet not grown ceremonial, but solemn, significant to the outmost
      fringe! Neither, in modern private life, are theatrical scenes,
      of tearful women wetting whole ells of cambric in concert, of
      impassioned bushy-whiskered youth threatening suicide, and such
      like, to be so entirely detested: drop thou a tear over them
      thyself rather.

      At any rate, one can remark that no Nation will throw-by its
      work, and deliberately go out to make a scene, without meaning
      something thereby. For indeed no scenic individual, with knavish
      hypocritical views, will take the trouble to _soliloquise_ a
      scene: and now consider, is not a scenic Nation placed precisely
      in that predicament of soliloquising; for its own behoof alone;
      to solace its own sensibilities, maudlin or other?—Yet in this
      respect, of readiness for scenes, the difference of Nations, as
      of men, is very great. If our Saxon-Puritanic friends, for
      example, swore and signed their National Covenant, without
      discharge of gunpowder, or the beating of any drum, in a dingy
      Covenant-Close of the Edinburgh High-street, in a mean room,
      where men now drink mean liquor, it was consistent with their
      ways so to swear it. Our Gallic-Encyclopedic friends, again, must
      have a Champ-de-Mars, seen of all the world, or universe; and
      such a Scenic Exhibition, to which the Coliseum Amphitheatre was
      but a stroller’s barn, as this old Globe of ours had never or
      hardly ever beheld. Which method also we reckon natural, then and
      there. Nor perhaps was the respective _keeping_ of these two
      Oaths far out of due proportion to such respective display in
      taking them: inverse proportion, namely. For the theatricality of
      a People goes in a compound-ratio: ratio indeed of their
      trustfulness, sociability, fervency; but then also of their
      excitability, of their porosity, not _continent;_ or say, of
      their explosiveness, hot-flashing, but which does not last.

      How true also, once more, is it that no man or Nation of men,
      _conscious_ of doing a great thing, was ever, in that thing,
      doing other than a small one! O Champ-de-Mars Federation, with
      three hundred drummers, twelve hundred wind-musicians, and
      artillery planted on height after height to boom the tidings of
      it all over France, in few minutes! Could no Atheist-Naigeon
      contrive to discern, eighteen centuries off, those Thirteen most
      poor mean-dressed men, at frugal Supper, in a mean Jewish
      dwelling, with no symbol but hearts god-initiated into the
      “Divine depth of Sorrow,” and a _Do this in remembrance of
      me;_—and so cease that small difficult crowing of his, if he were
      not doomed to it?


      Chapter 2.1.X.
      Mankind.

      Pardonable are human theatricalities; nay perhaps touching, like
      the passionate utterance of a tongue which with sincerity
      _stammers;_ of a head which with insincerity _babbles_,—having
      gone distracted. Yet, in comparison with unpremeditated outbursts
      of Nature, such as an Insurrection of Women, how foisonless,
      unedifying, undelightful; like small ale palled, like an
      effervescence that has effervesced! Such scenes, coming of
      forethought, were they world-great, and never so cunningly
      devised, are at bottom mainly pasteboard and paint. But the
      others are original; emitted from the great everliving heart of
      Nature herself: what figure _they_ will assume is unspeakably
      significant. To us, therefore, let the French National Solemn
      League, and Federation, be the highest recorded triumph of the
      Thespian Art; triumphant surely, since the whole Pit, which was
      of Twenty-five Millions, not only claps hands, but does itself
      spring on the boards and passionately set to playing there. And
      being such, be it treated as such: with sincere cursory
      admiration; with wonder from afar. A whole Nation gone mumming
      deserves so much; but deserves not that loving minuteness a
      Menadic Insurrection did. Much more let prior, and as it were,
      rehearsal scenes of Federation come and go, henceforward, as they
      list; and, on Plains and under City-walls, innumerable regimental
      bands blare off into the Inane, without note from us.

      One scene, however, the hastiest reader will momentarily pause
      on: that of Anacharsis Clootz and the Collective sinful Posterity
      of Adam.—For a Patriot Municipality has now, on the 4th of June,
      got its plan concocted, and got it sanctioned by National
      Assembly; a Patriot King assenting; to whom, were he even free to
      dissent, Federative harangues, overflowing with loyalty, have
      doubtless a transient sweetness. There shall come Deputed
      National Guards, so many in the hundred, from each of the
      Eighty-three Departments of France. Likewise from all Naval and
      Military King’s Forces, shall Deputed quotas come; such
      Federation of National with Royal Soldier has, taking place
      spontaneously, been already seen and sanctioned. For the rest, it
      is hoped, as many as forty thousand may arrive: expenses to be
      borne by the Deputing District; of all which let District and
      Department take thought, and elect fit men,—whom the Paris
      brethren will fly to meet and welcome.

      Now, therefore, judge if our Patriot Artists are busy; taking
      deep counsel how to make the Scene worthy of a look from the
      Universe! As many as fifteen thousand men, spade-men, barrow-men,
      stone-builders, rammers, with their engineers, are at work on the
      Champ-de-Mars; hollowing it out into a natural Amphitheatre, fit
      for such solemnity. For one may hope it will be annual and
      perennial; a “Feast of Pikes, _Fête des Piques_,” notablest among
      the high-tides of the year: in any case ought not a Scenic free
      Nation to have some permanent National Amphitheatre? The
      Champ-de-Mars is getting hollowed out; and the daily talk and the
      nightly dream in most Parisian heads is of Federation, and that
      only. Federate Deputies are already under way. National Assembly,
      what with its natural work, what with hearing and answering
      harangues of Federates, of this Federation, will have enough to
      do! Harangue of “American Committee,” among whom is that faint
      figure of Paul Jones “as with the stars dim-twinkling through
      it,”—come to congratulate us on the prospect of such auspicious
      day. Harangue of Bastille Conquerors, come to “renounce” any
      special recompense, any peculiar place at the solemnity;—since
      the Centre Grenadiers rather grumble. Harangue of “Tennis-Court
      Club,” who enter with far-gleaming Brass-plate, aloft on a pole,
      and the Tennis-Court Oath engraved thereon; which far gleaming
      Brass-plate they purpose to affix solemnly in the Versailles
      original locality, on the 20th of this month, which is the
      anniversary, as a deathless memorial, for some years: they will
      then dine, as they come back, in the Bois de
      Boulogne;[292]—cannot, however, do it without apprising the
      world. To such things does the august National Assembly ever and
      anon cheerfully listen, suspending its regenerative labours; and
      with some touch of impromptu eloquence, make friendly reply;—as
      indeed the wont has long been; for it is a gesticulating,
      sympathetic People, and has a heart, and wears it on its sleeve.

      In which circumstances, it occurred to the mind of Anacharsis
      Clootz that while so much was embodying itself into Club or
      Committee, and perorating applauded, there yet remained a greater
      and greatest; of which, if _it_ also took body and perorated,
      what might not the effect be: Humankind namely, _le Genre Humain_
      itself! In what rapt creative moment the Thought rose in
      Anacharsis’s soul; all his throes, while he went about giving
      shape and birth to it; how he was sneered at by cold worldlings;
      but did sneer again, being a man of polished sarcasm; and moved
      to and fro persuasive in coffeehouse and soirée, and dived down
      assiduous-obscure in the great deep of Paris, making his Thought
      a Fact: of all this the spiritual biographies of that period say
      nothing. Enough that on the 19th evening of June 1790, the Sun’s
      slant rays lighted a spectacle such as our foolish little Planet
      has not often had to show: Anacharsis Clootz entering the august
      Salle de Manége, with the Human Species at his heels. Swedes,
      Spaniards, Polacks; Turks, Chaldeans, Greeks, dwellers in
      Mesopotamia: behold them all; they have come to claim place in
      the grand Federation, having an undoubted interest in it.

      ‘Our ambassador titles,’ said the fervid Clootz, ‘are not written
      on parchment, but on the living hearts of all men.’ These
      whiskered Polacks, long-flowing turbaned Ishmaelites,
      astrological Chaldeans, who stand so mute here, let them plead
      with you, august Senators, more eloquently than eloquence could.
      They are the mute representatives of their tongue-tied,
      befettered, heavy-laden Nations; who from out of that dark
      bewilderment gaze wistful, amazed, with half-incredulous hope,
      towards you, and this your bright light of a French Federation:
      bright particular day-star, the herald of universal day. We claim
      to stand there, as mute monuments, pathetically adumbrative of
      much.—From bench and gallery comes “repeated applause;” for what
      august Senator but is flattered even by the very shadow of Human
      Species depending on him? From President Sieyes, who presides
      this remarkable fortnight, in spite of his small voice, there
      comes eloquent though shrill reply. Anacharsis and the
      “Foreigners Committee” shall have place at the Federation; on
      condition of telling their respective Peoples what they see
      there. In the mean time, we invite them to the “honours of the
      sitting, _honneur de la séance_.” A long-flowing Turk, for
      rejoinder, bows with Eastern solemnity, and utters articulate
      sounds: but owing to his imperfect knowledge of the French
      dialect,[293] his words are like spilt water; the thought he had
      in him remains conjectural to this day.

      Anacharsis and Mankind accept the honours of the sitting; and
      have forthwith, as the old Newspapers still testify, the
      satisfaction to see several things. First and chief, on the
      motion of Lameth, Lafayette, Saint-Fargeau and other Patriot
      Nobles, let the others repugn as they will: all Titles of
      Nobility, from Duke to Esquire, or lower, are henceforth
      _abolished_. Then, in like manner, Livery Servants, or rather the
      Livery of Servants. Neither, for the future, shall any man or
      woman, self-styled noble, be “incensed,”—foolishly fumigated with
      incense, in Church; as the wont has been. In a word, Feudalism
      being dead these ten months, why should her empty trappings and
      scutcheons survive? The very Coats-of-arms will require to be
      obliterated;—and yet Cassandra Marat on this and the other
      coach-panel notices that they “are but painted-over,” and
      threaten to peer through again.

      So that henceforth de Lafayette is but the Sieur Motier, and
      Saint-Fargeau is plain Michel Lepelletier; and Mirabeau soon
      after has to say huffingly, ‘With your _Riquetti_ you have set
      Europe at cross-purposes for three days.’ For his Counthood is
      not indifferent to this man; which indeed the admiring People
      treat him with to the last. But let extreme Patriotism rejoice,
      and chiefly Anacharsis and Mankind; for now it seems to be taken
      for granted that one Adam is Father of us all!—

      Such was, in historical accuracy, the famed feat of Anacharsis.
      Thus did the most extensive of Public Bodies find a sort of
      spokesman. Whereby at least we may judge of one thing: what a
      humour the once sniffing mocking City of Paris and Baron Clootz
      had got into; when such exhibition could appear a propriety, next
      door to a sublimity. It is true, Envy did in after times, pervert
      this success of Anacharsis; making him, from incidental “Speaker
      of the Foreign-Nations Committee,” claim to be official permanent
      “Speaker, _Orateur_, of the Human Species,” which he only
      deserved to be; and alleging, calumniously, that his astrological
      Chaldeans, and the rest, were a mere French tag-rag-and-bobtail
      disguised for the nonce; and, in short, sneering and fleering at
      him in _her_ cold barren way; all which, however, he, the man he
      was, could receive on thick enough panoply, or even rebound
      therefrom, and also go _his_ way.

      Most extensive of Public Bodies, we may call it; and also the
      most unexpected: for who could have thought to see All Nations in
      the Tuileries Riding-Hall? But so it is; and truly as strange
      things may happen when a whole People goes mumming and miming.
      Hast not thou thyself perchance seen diademed Cleopatra, daughter
      of the Ptolemies, pleading, almost with bended knee, in unheroic
      tea-parlour, or dimlit retail-shop, to inflexible gross Burghal
      Dignitary, for leave to reign and die; being dressed for it, and
      moneyless, with small children;—while suddenly Constables have
      shut the Thespian barn, and her Antony pleaded in vain? Such
      visual spectra flit across this Earth, if the Thespian Stage be
      rudely interfered with: but much more, when, as was said, Pit
      jumps on Stage, then is it verily, as in Herr Tieck’s Drama, a
      _Verkehrte Welt_, of World Topsy-turvied!

      Having seen the Human Species itself, to have seen the “_Dean_ of
      the Human Species,” ceased now to be a miracle. Such “_Doyen du
      Genre Humain_, Eldest of Men,” had shewn himself there, in these
      weeks: Jean Claude Jacob, a born Serf, deputed from his native
      Jura Mountains to thank the National Assembly for enfranchising
      them. On his bleached worn face are ploughed the furrowings of
      one hundred and twenty years. He has heard dim _patois_-talk, of
      immortal Grand-Monarch victories; of a burnt Palatinate, as _he_
      toiled and moiled to make a little speck of this Earth greener;
      of Cevennes Dragoonings; of Marlborough going to the war. Four
      generations have bloomed out, and loved and hated, and rustled
      off: he was forty-six when Louis Fourteenth died. The Assembly,
      as one man, spontaneously rose, and did reverence to the Eldest
      of the World; old Jean is to take _séance_ among them,
      honourably, with covered head. He gazes feebly there, with his
      old eyes, on that new wonder-scene; dreamlike to him, and
      uncertain, wavering amid fragments of old memories and dreams.
      For Time is all growing unsubstantial, dreamlike; Jean’s eyes and
      mind are weary, and about to close,—and open on a far other
      wonder-scene, which shall be real. Patriot Subscription, Royal
      Pension was got for him, and he returned home glad; but in two
      months more he left it all, and went on his unknown way.[294]


      Chapter 2.1.XI.
      As in the Age of Gold.

      Meanwhile to Paris, ever going and returning, day after day, and
      all day long, towards that Field of Mars, it becomes painfully
      apparent that the spadework there cannot be got done in time.
      There is such an area of it; three hundred thousand square feet:
      for from the Ecole militaire (which will need to be done up in
      wood with balconies and galleries) westward to the Gate by the
      river (where also shall be wood, in triumphal arches), we count
      same thousand yards of length; and for breadth, from this
      umbrageous Avenue of eight rows, on the South side, to that
      corresponding one on the North, some thousand feet, more or less.
      All this to be scooped out, and wheeled up in slope along the
      sides; high enough; for it must be rammed down there, and shaped
      stair-wise into as many as “thirty ranges of convenient seats,”
      firm-trimmed with turf, covered with enduring timber;—and then
      our huge pyramidal Fatherland’s-Altar, _Autel de la Patrie_, in
      the centre, also to be raised and stair-stepped! Force-work with
      a vengeance; it is a World’s Amphitheatre! There are but fifteen
      days good; and at this languid rate, it might take half as many
      weeks. What is singular too, the spademen seem to work lazily;
      they will not work double-tides, even for offer of more wages,
      though their tide is but seven hours; they declare angrily that
      the human tabernacle requires occasional rest!

      Is it Aristocrats secretly bribing? Aristocrats were capable of
      that. Only six months since, did not evidence get afloat that
      subterranean Paris, for we stand over quarries and catacombs,
      dangerously, as it were midway between Heaven and the Abyss, and
      are hollow underground,—was charged with gunpowder, which should
      make us “leap?” Till a Cordelier’s Deputation actually went to
      examine, and found it—carried off again![295] An accursed,
      incurable brood; all asking for “passports,” in these sacred
      days. Trouble, of rioting, château-burning, is in the Limousin
      and elsewhere; for they are busy! Between the best of Peoples and
      the best of Restorer-Kings, they would sow grudges; with what a
      fiend’s-grin would they see this Federation, looked for by the
      Universe, fail!

      Fail for want of spadework, however, it shall not. He that has
      four limbs, and a French heart, can do spadework; and will! On
      the first July Monday, scarcely has the signal-cannon boomed;
      scarcely have the languescent mercenary Fifteen Thousand laid
      down their tools, and the eyes of onlookers turned sorrowfully of
      the still high Sun; when this and the other Patriot, fire in his
      eye, snatches barrow and mattock, and himself begins indignantly
      wheeling. Whom scores and then hundreds follow; and soon a
      volunteer Fifteen Thousand are shovelling and trundling; with the
      heart of giants; and all in right order, with that extemporaneous
      adroitness of theirs: whereby _such_ a lift has been given, worth
      three mercenary ones;—which may end when the late twilight
      thickens, in triumph shouts, heard or heard of beyond Montmartre!

      A sympathetic population will _wait_, next day, with eagerness,
      till the tools are free. Or why wait? Spades elsewhere exist! And
      so now bursts forth that effulgence of Parisian enthusiasm,
      good-heartedness and brotherly love; such, if Chroniclers are
      trustworthy, as was not witnessed since the Age of Gold. Paris,
      male and female, precipitates itself towards its South-west
      extremity, spade on shoulder. Streams of men, without order; or
      in order, as ranked fellow-craftsmen, as natural or accidental
      reunions, march towards the Field of Mars. Three-deep these
      march; to the sound of stringed music; preceded by young girls
      with green boughs, and tricolor streamers: they have shouldered,
      soldier-wise, their shovels and picks; and with one throat are
      singing _ça-ira_. Yes, _pardieu ça-ira_, cry the passengers on
      the streets. All corporate Guilds, and public and private Bodies
      of Citizens, from the highest to the lowest, march; the very
      Hawkers, one finds, have ceased bawling for one day. The
      neighbouring Villages turn out: their able men come marching, to
      village fiddle or tambourine and triangle, under their Mayor, or
      Mayor and Curate, who also walk bespaded, and in tricolor sash.
      As many as one hundred and fifty thousand workers: nay at certain
      seasons, as some count, two hundred and fifty thousand; for, in
      the afternoon especially, what mortal but, finishing his hasty
      day’s work, would run! A stirring city: from the time you reach
      the Place Louis Quinze, southward over the River, by all Avenues,
      it is one living throng. So many workers; and no mercenary
      mock-workers, but real ones that lie freely to it: each Patriot
      _stretches_ himself against the stubborn glebe; hews and wheels
      with the whole weight that is in him.

      Amiable infants, _aimables enfans!_ They do the “_police des
      l’atelier_” too, the guidance and governance, themselves; with
      that ready will of theirs, with that extemporaneous adroitness.
      It is a true brethren’s work; all distinctions confounded,
      abolished; as it was in the beginning, when Adam himself delved.
      Longfrocked tonsured Monks, with short-skirted Water-carriers,
      with swallow-tailed well-frizzled _Incroyables_ of a Patriot
      turn; dark Charcoalmen, meal-white Peruke-makers; or
      Peruke-wearers, for Advocate and Judge are there, and all Heads
      of Districts: sober Nuns sisterlike with flaunting Nymphs of the
      Opera, and females in common circumstances named unfortunate: the
      patriot Rag-picker, and perfumed dweller in palaces; for
      Patriotism like New-birth, and also like Death, levels all. The
      Printers have come marching, Prudhomme’s all in Paper-caps with
      _Révolutions de Paris_ printed on them; as Camille notes; wishing
      that in these great days there should be a _Pacte des Ecrivains_
      too, or Federation of Able Editors.[296] Beautiful to see! The
      snowy linen and delicate pantaloon alternates with the soiled
      check-shirt and bushel-breeches; for both have cast their coats,
      and under both are four limbs and a set of Patriot muscles. There
      do they pick and shovel; or bend forward, yoked in long strings
      to box-barrow or overloaded tumbril; joyous, with one mind. Abbé
      Sieyes is seen pulling, wiry, vehement, if too light for draught;
      by the side of Beauharnais, who shall get Kings though he be
      none. Abbé Maury did not pull; but the Charcoalmen brought a
      mummer guised like him, so he had to pull in effigy. Let no
      august Senator disdain the work: Mayor Bailly, Generalissimo
      Lafayette are there;—and, alas, shall be there again another day!
      The King himself comes to see: sky-rending _Vive-le-Roi;_ “and
      suddenly with shouldered spades they form a guard of honour round
      him.” Whosoever can come comes, to work, or to look, and bless
      the work.

      Whole families have come. One whole family we see clearly, of
      three generations: the father picking, the mother shovelling, the
      young ones wheeling assiduous; old grandfather, hoary with
      ninety-three years, holds in his arms the youngest of all:[297]
      frisky, not helpful this one; who nevertheless may tell it to
      _his_ grandchildren; and how the Future and the Past alike looked
      on, and with failing or with half-formed voice, faltered their
      _ça-ira_. A vintner has wheeled in, on Patriot truck, beverage of
      wine: ‘Drink not, my brothers, if ye are not dry; that your cask
      may last the longer;’ neither did any drink, but men “evidently
      exhausted.” A dapper Abbé looks on, sneering. ‘To the barrow!’
      cry several; whom he, lest a worse thing befal him, obeys:
      nevertheless one wiser Patriot barrowman, arriving now,
      interposes his ‘_arrêtez;_’ setting down his own barrow, he
      snatches the Abbé’s; trundles it fast, like an infected thing;
      forth of the Champ-de-Mars circuit, and discharges it _there_.
      Thus too a certain person (of some quality, or private capital,
      to appearance), entering hastily, flings down his coat, waistcoat
      and two watches, and is rushing to the thick of the work: ‘But
      your watches?’ cries the general voice.—‘Does one distrust his
      brothers?’ answers he; nor were the watches stolen. How beautiful
      is noble-sentiment: like gossamer gauze, beautiful and cheap;
      which will stand no tear and wear! Beautiful cheap gossamer
      gauze, thou film-shadow of a raw-material of Virtue, which art
      not woven, nor likely to be, into Duty; thou art better than
      nothing, and also worse!

      Young Boarding-school Boys, College Students, shout _Vive la
      Nation_, and regret that they have yet “only their sweat to
      give.” What say we of Boys? Beautifullest Hebes; the loveliest of
      Paris, in their light air-robes, with riband-girdle of tricolor,
      are there; shovelling and wheeling with the rest; their Hebe eyes
      brighter with enthusiasm, and long hair in beautiful
      dishevelment: hard-pressed are their small fingers; but they make
      the patriot barrow go, and even force it to the summit of the
      slope (with a little tracing, which what man’s arm were not too
      happy to lend?)—then bound down with it again, and go for more;
      with their long locks and tricolors blown back: graceful as the
      rosy Hours. O, as that evening Sun fell over the Champ-de-Mars,
      and tinted with fire the thick umbrageous boscage that shelters
      it on this hand and on that, and struck direct on those Domes and
      two-and-forty Windows of the Ecole Militaire, and made them all
      of burnished gold,—saw he on his wide zodiac road other such
      sight? A living garden spotted and dotted with such flowerage;
      all colours of the prism; the beautifullest blent friendly with
      the usefullest; all growing and working brotherlike there, under
      one warm feeling, were it but for days; once and no second time!
      But Night is sinking; these Nights too, into Eternity. The
      hastiest Traveller Versailles-ward has drawn bridle on the
      heights of Chaillot: and looked for moments over the River;
      reporting at Versailles what he saw, not without tears.[298]

      Meanwhile, from all points of the compass, Federates are
      arriving: fervid children of the South, “who glory in their
      Mirabeau;” considerate North-blooded Mountaineers of Jura; sharp
      Bretons, with their Gaelic suddenness; Normans not to be
      overreached in bargain: all now animated with one noblest fire of
      Patriotism. Whom the Paris brethren march forth to receive; with
      military solemnities, with fraternal embracing, and a hospitality
      worthy of the heroic ages. They assist at the Assembly’s Debates,
      these Federates: the Galleries are reserved for them. They assist
      in the toils of the Champ-de-Mars; each new troop will put its
      hand to the spade; lift a hod of earth on the Altar of the
      Fatherland. But the flourishes of rhetoric, for it is a
      gesticulating People; the moral-sublime of those Addresses to an
      august Assembly, to a Patriot Restorer! Our Breton Captain of
      Federates kneels even, in a fit of enthusiasm, and gives up his
      sword; he wet-eyed to a King wet-eyed. Poor Louis! These, as he
      said afterwards, were among the bright days of his life.

      Reviews also there must be; royal Federate-reviews, with King,
      Queen and tricolor Court looking on: at lowest, if, as is too
      common, it rains, our Federate Volunteers will file through the
      inner gateways, Royalty standing dry. Nay there, should some stop
      occur, the beautifullest fingers in France may take you softly by
      the lapelle, and, in mild flute-voice, ask: ‘Monsieur, of what
      Province are you?’ Happy he who can reply, chivalrously lowering
      his sword’s point, ‘Madame, from the Province your ancestors
      reigned over.’ He that happy “Provincial Advocate,” now
      Provincial Federate, shall be rewarded by a sun-smile, and such
      melodious glad words addressed to a King: ‘Sire, these are your
      faithful Lorrainers.’ Cheerier verily, in these holidays, is this
      “skyblue faced with red” of a National Guardsman, than the dull
      black and gray of a Provincial Advocate, which in workdays one
      was used to. For the same thrice-blessed Lorrainer shall, this
      evening, stand sentry at a Queen’s door; and feel that he could
      die a thousand deaths for her: then again, at the outer gate, and
      even a third time, she shall see him; nay he will make her do it;
      presenting arms with emphasis, “making his musket jingle again”:
      and in her salute there shall again be a sun-smile, and that
      little blonde-locked too hasty Dauphin shall be admonished,
      ‘Salute then, Monsieur, don’t be unpolite;’ and therewith she,
      like a bright Sky-wanderer or Planet with her little Moon, issues
      forth peculiar.[299]

      But at night, when Patriot spadework is over, figure the sacred
      rights of hospitality! Lepelletier Saint-Fargeau, a mere private
      senator, but with great possessions, has daily his “hundred
      dinner-guests;” the table of Generalissimo Lafayette may double
      that number. In lowly parlour, as in lofty saloon, the wine-cup
      passes round; crowned by the smiles of Beauty; be it of
      lightly-tripping Grisette, or of high-sailing Dame, for both
      equally have beauty, and smiles precious to the brave.


      Chapter 2.1.XII.
      Sound and Smoke.

      And so now, in spite of plotting Aristocrats, lazy hired
      spademen, and almost of Destiny itself (for there has been much
      rain), the Champ-de-Mars, on the 13th of the month is fairly
      ready; trimmed, rammed, buttressed with firm masonry; and
      Patriotism can stroll over it admiring; and as it were
      rehearsing, for in every head is some unutterable image of the
      morrow. Pray Heaven there be not clouds. Nay what far worse cloud
      is this, of a misguided Municipality that talks of admitting
      Patriotism, to the solemnity, by tickets! Was it by tickets we
      were admitted to the work; and to what brought the work? Did we
      take the Bastille by tickets? A misguided Municipality sees the
      error; at late midnight, rolling drums announce to Patriotism
      starting half out of its bed-clothes, that it is to be
      ticketless. Pull down thy night-cap therefore; and, with
      demi-articulate grumble, significant of several things, go
      pacified to sleep again. Tomorrow is Wednesday morning;
      unforgetable among the _fasti_ of the world.

      The morning comes, cold for a July one; but such a festivity
      would make Greenland smile. Through every inlet of that National
      Amphitheatre (for it is a league in circuit, cut with openings at
      due intervals), floods-in the living throng; covers without
      tumult space after space. The Ecole Militaire has galleries and
      overvaulting canopies, where Carpentry and Painting have vied,
      for the upper Authorities; triumphal arches, at the Gate by the
      River, bear inscriptions, if weak, yet well-meant, and orthodox.
      Far aloft, over the Altar of the Fatherland, on their tall crane
      standards of iron, swing pensile our antique _Cassolettes_ or
      pans of incense; dispensing sweet incense-fumes,—unless for the
      Heathen Mythology, one sees not for whom. Two hundred thousand
      Patriotic Men; and, twice as good, one hundred thousand Patriotic
      Women, all decked and glorified as one can fancy, sit waiting in
      this Champ-de-Mars.

      What a picture: that circle of bright-eyed Life, spread up there,
      on its thirty-seated Slope; leaning, one would say, on the thick
      umbrage of those Avenue-Trees, for the stems of them are hidden
      by the height; and all beyond it mere greenness of Summer Earth,
      with the gleams of waters, or white sparklings of stone-edifices:
      little circular enamel-picture in the centre of such a vase—of
      emerald! A vase not empty: the Invalides Cupolas want not their
      population, nor the distant Windmills of Montmartre; on remotest
      steeple and invisible village belfry, stand men with spy-glasses.
      On the heights of Chaillot are many-coloured undulating groups;
      round and far on, over all the circling heights that embosom
      Paris, it is as one more or less peopled Amphitheatre; which the
      eye grows dim with measuring. Nay heights, as was before hinted,
      have cannon; and a floating-battery of cannon is on the Seine.
      When eye fails, ear shall serve; and all France properly is but
      one Amphitheatre: for in paved town and unpaved hamlet, men walk
      listening; till the muffled thunder sound audible on their
      horizon, that they too may begin swearing and firing![300] But
      now, to streams of music, come Federates enough,—for they have
      assembled on the Boulevard Saint-Antoine or thereby, and come
      marching through the City, with their Eighty-three Department
      Banners, and blessings not loud but deep; comes National
      Assembly, and takes seat under its Canopy; comes Royalty, and
      takes seat on a throne beside it. And Lafayette, on white
      charger, is here, and all the civic Functionaries; and the
      Federates form dances, till their strictly military evolutions
      and manœuvres can begin.

      Evolutions and manœuvres? Task not the pen of mortal to describe
      them: truant imagination droops;—declares that it is not worth
      while. There is wheeling and sweeping, to slow, to quick, and
      double quick-time: Sieur Motier, or Generalissimo Lafayette, for
      they are one and the same, and he is General of France, in the
      King’s stead, for four-and-twenty hours; Sieur Motier must step
      forth, with that sublime chivalrous gait of his; solemnly ascend
      the steps of the Fatherland’s Altar, in sight of Heaven and of
      the scarcely breathing Earth; and, under the creak of those
      swinging _Cassolettes_, “pressing his sword’s point firmly
      there,” pronounce the Oath, _To King, to Law, and Nation_ (not to
      mention “grains” with their circulating), in his own name and
      that of armed France. Whereat there is waving of banners and
      acclaim sufficient. The National Assembly must swear, standing in
      its place; the King himself audibly. The King swears; and now
      _be_ the welkin split with vivats; let citizens enfranchised
      embrace, each smiting heartily his palm into his fellow’s; and
      armed Federates clang their arms; above all, that floating
      battery speak! It has spoken,—to the four corners of France. From
      eminence to eminence, bursts the thunder; faint-heard,
      loud-repeated. What a stone, cast into what a lake; in circles
      that do _not_ grow fainter. From Arras to Avignon; from Metz to
      Bayonne! Over Orléans and Blois it rolls, in cannon-recitative;
      Puy bellows of it amid his granite mountains; Pau where is the
      shell-cradle of Great Henri. At far Marseilles, one can think,
      the ruddy evening witnesses it; over the deep-blue Mediterranean
      waters, the Castle of If ruddy-tinted darts forth, from every
      cannon’s mouth, its tongue of fire; and all the people shout:
      Yes, France is free. O glorious France that has burst out so;
      into universal sound and smoke; and attained—the Phrygian _Cap_
      of Liberty! In all Towns, Trees of Liberty also may be planted;
      with or without advantage. Said we not, it is the highest stretch
      attained by the Thespian Art on this Planet, or perhaps
      attainable?

      The Thespian Art, unfortunately, one must still call it; for
      behold there, on this Field of Mars, the National Banners, before
      there could be any swearing, were to be all blessed. A most
      proper operation; since surely without Heaven’s blessing
      bestowed, say even, audibly or inaudibly _sought_, no Earthly
      banner or contrivance can prove victorious: but now the means of
      doing it? By what thrice-divine Franklin thunder-rod shall
      miraculous fire be drawn out of Heaven; and descend gently,
      life-giving, with health to the souls of men? Alas, by the
      simplest: by Two Hundred shaven-crowned Individuals, “in
      snow-white albs, with tricolor girdles,” arranged on the steps of
      Fatherland’s Altar; and, at their head for spokesman, Soul’s
      Overseer Talleyrand-Perigord! These shall act as miraculous
      thunder-rod,—to such length as they can. O ye deep azure Heavens,
      and thou green all-nursing Earth; ye Streams ever-flowing;
      deciduous Forests that die and are born again, continually, like
      the sons of men; stone Mountains that die daily with every
      rain-shower, yet are not dead and levelled for ages of ages, nor
      born again (it seems) but with new world-explosions, and such
      tumultuous seething and tumbling, steam half way to the Moon; O
      thou unfathomable mystic All, garment and dwellingplace of the
      UNNAMED; O spirit, lastly, of Man, who mouldest and modellest
      that Unfathomable Unnameable even as we see,—is not _there_ a
      miracle: That some French mortal should, we say not have
      believed, but pretended to imagine that he believed that
      Talleyrand and Two Hundred pieces of white Calico could do it!

      Here, however, we are to remark with the sorrowing Historians of
      that day, that suddenly, while Episcopus Talleyrand, long-stoled,
      with mitre and tricolor belt, was yet but hitching up the
      Altar-steps, to do his miracle, the material Heaven grew black; a
      north-wind, moaning cold moisture, began to sing; and there
      descended a very deluge of rain. Sad to see! The thirty-staired
      Seats, all round our Amphitheatre, get instantaneously slated
      with mere umbrellas, fallacious when so thick set: our antique
      _Cassolettes_ become Water-pots; their incense-smoke gone
      hissing, in a whiff of muddy vapour. Alas, instead of vivats,
      there is nothing now but the furious peppering and rattling. From
      three to four hundred thousand human individuals feel that they
      have a skin; happily _im_pervious. The General’s sash runs water:
      how all military banners droop; and will not wave, but lazily
      flap, as if metamorphosed into painted tin-banners! Worse, far
      worse, these hundred thousand, such is the Historian’s testimony,
      of the fairest of France! Their snowy muslins all splashed and
      draggled; the ostrich feather shrunk shamefully to the backbone
      of a feather: all caps are ruined; innermost pasteboard molten
      into its original pap: Beauty no longer swims decorated in her
      garniture, like Love-goddess hidden-revealed in her Paphian
      clouds, but struggles in disastrous imprisonment in it, for “the
      shape was noticeable;” and now only sympathetic interjections,
      titterings, teeheeings, and resolute good-humour will avail. A
      deluge; an incessant sheet or fluid-column of rain;—such that our
      Overseer’s very mitre must be filled; not a mitre, but a filled
      and leaky fire-bucket on his reverend head!—Regardless of which,
      Overseer Talleyrand performs his miracle: the Blessing of
      Talleyrand, another than that of Jacob, is on all the
      Eighty-three departmental flags of France; which wave or flap,
      with such thankfulness as needs. Towards three o’clock, the sun
      beams out again: the remaining evolutions can be transacted under
      bright heavens, though with decorations much damaged.[301]

      On Wednesday our Federation is consummated: but the festivities
      last out the week, and over into the next. Festivities such as no
      Bagdad Caliph, or Aladdin with the Lamp, could have equalled.
      There is a Jousting on the River; with its water-somersets,
      splashing and haha-ing: Abbé Fauchet, _Te-Deum_ Fauchet,
      preaches, for his part, in “the rotunda of the Corn-market,” a
      Harangue on Franklin; for whom the National Assembly has lately
      gone three days in black. The Motier and Lepelletier tables still
      groan with viands; roofs ringing with patriotic toasts. On the
      fifth evening, which is the Christian Sabbath, there is a
      universal Ball. Paris, out of doors and in, man, woman and child,
      is jigging it, to the sound of harp and four-stringed fiddle. The
      hoariest-headed man will tread one other measure, under this
      nether Moon; speechless nurselings, _infants_ as we call them,
      νήπια τέκνα, crow in arms; and sprawl out numb-plump little
      limbs,—impatient for muscularity, they know not why. The stiffest
      balk bends more or less; all joists creak.

      Or out, on the Earth’s breast itself, behold the Ruins of the
      Bastille. All lamplit, allegorically decorated: a Tree of Liberty
      sixty feet high; and Phrygian Cap on it, of size enormous, under
      which King Arthur and his round-table might have dined! In the
      depths of the background, is a single lugubrious lamp, rendering
      dim-visible one of your iron cages, half-buried, and some Prison
      stones,—Tyranny vanishing downwards, all gone but the skirt: the
      rest wholly lamp-festoons, trees real or of pasteboard; in the
      similitude of a fairy grove; with this inscription, readable to
      runner: “_Ici l’on danse_, Dancing Here.” As indeed had been
      obscurely foreshadowed by Cagliostro[302] prophetic Quack of
      Quacks, when he, four years ago, quitted the grim durance;—to
      fall into a grimmer, of the Roman Inquisition, and not quit it.

      But, after all, what is this Bastille business to that of the
      _Champs Elysées!_ Thither, to these Fields well named Elysian,
      all feet tend. It is radiant as day with festooned lamps; little
      oil-cups, like variegated fire-flies, daintily illumine the
      highest leaves: trees there are all sheeted with variegated fire,
      shedding far a glimmer into the dubious wood. There, under the
      free sky, do tight-limbed Federates, with fairest newfound
      sweethearts, elastic as Diana, and not of that coyness and tart
      humour of Diana, thread their jocund mazes, all through the
      ambrosial night; and hearts were touched and fired; and seldom
      surely had our old Planet, in that huge conic Shadow of hers
      “which goes beyond the Moon, and is named _Night_,” curtained
      such a Ball-room. O if, according to Seneca, the very gods look
      down on a good man struggling with adversity, and smile; what
      must they think of Five-and-twenty million indifferent ones
      victorious over it,—for eight days and more?

      In this way, and in such ways, however, has the Feast of Pikes
      danced itself off; gallant Federates wending homewards, towards
      every point of the compass, with feverish nerves, heart and head
      much heated; some of them, indeed, as Dampmartin’s elderly
      respectable friend, from Strasbourg, quite “burnt out with
      liquors,” and flickering towards extinction.[303] The Feast of
      Pikes has danced itself off, and become defunct, and the ghost of
      a Feast;—nothing of it now remaining but this vision in men’s
      memory; and the place that knew it (for the slope of that
      Champ-de-Mars is crumbled to half the original height[304]) now
      knowing it no more. Undoubtedly one of the memorablest National
      Hightides. Never or hardly ever, as we said, was Oath sworn with
      such heart-effusion, emphasis and expenditure of joyance; and
      then it was broken irremediably within year and day. Ah, why?
      When the swearing of it was so heavenly-joyful, bosom clasped to
      bosom, and Five-and-twenty million hearts all burning together: O
      ye inexorable Destinies, why?—Partly _because_ it was sworn with
      such over-joyance; but chiefly, indeed, for an older reason: that
      Sin had come into the world and Misery by Sin! These
      Five-and-twenty millions, if we will consider it, have now
      henceforth, with that Phrygian Cap of theirs, no force _over_
      them, to bind and guide; neither in them, more than heretofore,
      is guiding force, or rule of just living: how then, while they
      all go rushing at such a _pace_, on unknown ways, with no bridle,
      towards no aim, can hurlyburly unutterable fail? For verily not
      Federation-rosepink is the colour of this Earth and her work: not
      by outbursts of noble-sentiment, but with far other ammunition,
      shall a man front the world.

      But how wise, in all cases, to “husband your fire;” to keep it
      deep down, rather, as genial radical-heat! Explosions, the
      forciblest, and never so well directed, are questionable; far
      oftenest futile, always frightfully wasteful: but think of a man,
      of a Nation of men, spending its whole stock of fire in one
      artificial Firework! So have we seen fond weddings (for
      individuals, like Nations, have their Hightides) celebrated with
      an outburst of triumph and deray, at which the elderly shook
      their heads. Better had a serious cheerfulness been; for the
      enterprise was great. Fond pair! the more triumphant ye feel, and
      victorious over terrestrial evil, which seems all abolished, the
      wider-eyed will your disappointment be to find terrestrial evil
      still extant. ‘And why extant?’ will each of you cry: ‘Because my
      false mate has played the traitor: evil was abolished; I meant
      faithfully, and did, or would have done.’ Whereby the oversweet
      moon of honey changes itself into long years of vinegar; perhaps
      divulsive vinegar, like Hannibal’s.

      Shall we say then, the French Nation has led Royalty, or wooed
      and teased poor Royalty to lead _her_, to the hymeneal
      Fatherland’s Altar, in such oversweet manner; and has, most
      thoughtlessly, to celebrate the nuptials with due shine and
      demonstration,—burnt her bed?


      BOOK 2.II.
      NANCI


      Chapter 2.2.I.
      Bouillé.

      Dimly visible, at Metz on the North-Eastern frontier, a certain
      brave Bouillé, last refuge of Royalty in all straits and
      meditations of flight, has for many months hovered occasionally
      in our eye; some name or shadow of a brave Bouillé: let us now,
      for a little, look fixedly at him, till he become a substance and
      person for us. The man himself is worth a glance; his position
      and procedure there, in these days, will throw light on many
      things.

      For it is with Bouillé as with all French Commanding Officers;
      only in a more emphatic degree. The grand National Federation, we
      already guess, was but empty sound, or worse: a last loudest
      universal _Hep-hep-hurrah_, with full bumpers, in that National
      Lapithae-feast of Constitution-making; as in loud denial of the
      palpably existing; as if, with hurrahings, you would shut out
      notice of the inevitable already knocking at the gates! Which new
      National bumper, one may say, can but deepen the drunkenness; and
      so, the _louder_ it swears Brotherhood, will the sooner and the
      more surely lead to Cannibalism. Ah, under that fraternal shine
      and clangour, what a deep world of irreconcileable discords lie
      momentarily assuaged, damped down for one moment! Respectable
      military Federates have barely got home to their quarters; and
      the inflammablest, “dying, burnt up with liquors, and kindness,”
      has not yet got extinct; the shine is hardly out of men’s eyes,
      and still blazes filling all men’s memories,—when your discords
      burst forth again very considerably darker than ever. Let us look
      at Bouillé, and see how.

      Bouillé for the present commands in the Garrison of Metz, and far
      and wide over the East and North; being indeed, by a late act of
      Government with sanction of National Assembly, appointed one of
      our Four supreme Generals. Rochambeau and Mailly, men and
      Marshals of note in these days, though to us of small moment, are
      two of his colleagues; tough old babbling Lückner, also of small
      moment for us, will probably be the third. Marquis de Bouillé is
      a determined Loyalist; not indeed disinclined to moderate reform,
      but resolute against immoderate. A man long suspect to
      Patriotism; who has more than once given the august Assembly
      trouble; who would not, for example, take the National Oath, as
      he was bound to do, but always put it off on this or the other
      pretext, till an autograph of Majesty requested him to do it as a
      favour. There, in this post if not of honour, yet of eminence and
      danger, he waits, in a silent concentered manner; very dubious of
      the future. “Alone,” as he says, or almost alone, of all the old
      military Notabilities, he has not emigrated; but thinks always,
      in atrabiliar moments, that there will be nothing for him too but
      to cross the marches. He might cross, say, to Treves or Coblentz
      where Exiled Princes will be one day ranking; or say, over into
      Luxemburg where old Broglie loiters and languishes. Or is there
      not the great dim Deep of European Diplomacy; where your
      Calonnes, your Bréteuils are beginning to hover, dimly
      discernible?

      With immeasurable confused outlooks and purposes, with no clear
      purpose but this of still trying to do His Majesty a service,
      Bouillé waits; struggling what he can to keep his district loyal,
      his troops faithful, his garrisons furnished. He maintains, as
      yet, with his Cousin Lafayette, some thin diplomatic
      correspondence, by letter and messenger; chivalrous
      constitutional professions on the one side, military gravity and
      brevity on the other; which thin correspondence one can see
      growing ever the thinner and hollower, towards the verge of
      entire vacuity.[305] A quick, choleric, sharply discerning,
      stubbornly endeavouring man; with suppressed-explosive
      resolution, with valour, nay headlong audacity: a man who was
      more in his place, lionlike defending those Windward Isles, or,
      as with military tiger-spring, clutching Nevis and Montserrat
      from the English,—than here in this suppressed condition, muzzled
      and fettered by diplomatic packthreads; looking out for a civil
      war, which may never arrive. Few years ago Bouillé was to have
      led a French East-Indian Expedition, and reconquered or conquered
      Pondicherri and the Kingdoms of the Sun: but the whole world is
      suddenly changed, and he with it; Destiny willed it not in that
      way but in this.


      Chapter 2.2.II.
      Arrears and Aristocrats.

      Indeed, as to the general outlook of things, Bouillé himself
      augurs not well of it. The French Army, ever since those old
      Bastille days, and earlier, has been universally in the
      questionablest state, and growing daily worse. Discipline, which
      is at all times a kind of miracle, and works by faith, broke down
      then; one sees not with that near prospect of recovering itself.
      The Gardes Françaises played a deadly game; but how they won it,
      and wear the prizes of it, all men know. In that general
      overturn, we saw the Hired Fighters refuse to fight. The very
      Swiss of Château-Vieux, which indeed is a kind of French Swiss,
      from Geneva and the Pays de Vaud, are understood to have
      declined. Deserters glided over; Royal-Allemand itself looked
      disconsolate, though stanch of purpose. In a word, we there saw
      _Military Rule_, in the shape of poor Besenval with that
      convulsive unmanageable Camp of his, pass two martyr days on the
      Champ-de-Mars; and then, veiling itself, so to speak, “under the
      cloud of night,” depart “down the left bank of the Seine,” to
      seek refuge elsewhere; _this_ ground having clearly become too
      hot for it.

      But what new ground to seek, what remedy to try? Quarters that
      were “uninfected:” this doubtless, with judicious strictness of
      drilling, were the plan. Alas, in all quarters and places, from
      Paris onward to the remotest hamlet, is infection, is seditious
      contagion: inhaled, propagated by contact and converse, till the
      dullest soldier catch it! There is speech of men in uniform with
      men not in uniform; men in uniform read journals, and even write
      in them.[306] There are public petitions or remonstrances,
      private emissaries and associations; there is discontent,
      jealousy, uncertainty, sullen suspicious humour. The whole French
      Army, fermenting in dark heat, glooms ominous, boding good to no
      one.

      So that, in the general social dissolution and revolt, we are to
      have this deepest and dismallest kind of it, a revolting
      soldiery? Barren, desolate to look upon is this same business of
      revolt under all its aspects; but how infinitely more so, when it
      takes the aspect of military mutiny! The very implement of rule
      and restraint, whereby all the rest was managed and held in
      order, has become precisely the frightfullest immeasurable
      implement of misrule; like the element of Fire, our indispensable
      all-ministering servant, when it gets the _mastery_, and becomes
      conflagration. Discipline we called a kind of miracle: in fact,
      is it not miraculous how one man moves hundreds of thousands;
      each unit of whom it may be loves him not, and singly fears him
      not, yet has to obey him, to go hither or go thither, to march
      and halt, to give death, and even to receive it, as if a Fate had
      spoken; and the word-of-command becomes, almost in the literal
      sense, a magic-word?

      Which magic-word, again, if it be once _forgotten;_ the spell of
      it once broken! The legions of assiduous ministering spirits rise
      on you now as menacing fiends; your free orderly arena becomes a
      tumult-place of the Nether Pit, and the hapless magician is rent
      limb from limb. Military mobs are mobs with muskets in their
      hands; and also with death hanging over their heads, for death is
      the penalty of disobedience and they have disobeyed. And now if
      all mobs are properly frenzies, and work frenetically with mad
      fits of hot and of cold, fierce rage alternating so incoherently
      with panic terror, consider what your military mob will be, with
      such a conflict of duties and penalties, whirled between remorse
      and fury, and, for the hot fit, loaded fire-arms in its hand! To
      the soldier himself, revolt is frightful, and oftenest perhaps
      pitiable; and yet so dangerous, it can only be hated, cannot be
      pitied. An anomalous class of mortals these poor Hired Killers!
      With a frankness, which to the Moralist in these times seems
      surprising, they have sworn to become machines; and nevertheless
      they are still partly men. Let no prudent person in authority
      remind them of this latter fact; but always let force, let
      injustice above all, stop short clearly on _this_ side of the
      rebounding-point! Soldiers, as we often say, do revolt: were it
      not so, several things which are transient in this world might be
      perennial.

      Over and above the general quarrel which all sons of Adam
      maintain with their lot here below, the grievances of the French
      soldiery reduce themselves to two, First that their Officers are
      Aristocrats; secondly that they cheat them of their Pay. Two
      grievances; or rather we might say one, capable of becoming a
      hundred; for in that single first proposition, that the Officers
      are Aristocrats, what a multitude of corollaries lie ready! It is
      a bottomless ever-flowing fountain of grievances this; what you
      may call a general raw-material of grievance, wherefrom
      individual grievance after grievance will daily body itself
      forth. Nay there will even be a kind of comfort in getting it,
      from time to time, so embodied. Peculation of one’s Pay! It is
      embodied; made tangible, made denounceable; exhalable, if only in
      angry words.

      For unluckily that grand fountain of grievances does exist:
      Aristocrats almost all our Officers necessarily are; they have it
      in the blood and bone. By the law of the case, no man can pretend
      to be the pitifullest lieutenant of militia, till he have first
      verified, to the satisfaction of the Lion-King, a Nobility of
      four generations. Not Nobility only, but four generations of it:
      this latter is the improvement hit upon, in comparatively late
      years, by a certain War-minister much pressed for
      commissions.[307] An improvement which did relieve the
      over-pressed War-minister, but which split France still further
      into yawning contrasts of Commonalty and Nobility, nay of new
      Nobility and old; as if already with your new and old, and then
      with your old, older and oldest, there were not contrasts and
      discrepancies enough;—the general clash whereof men now see and
      hear, and in the singular whirlpool, all contrasts gone together
      to the bottom! Gone to the bottom or going; with uproar, without
      return; going every where save in the Military section of things;
      and there, it may be asked, can they hope to continue always at
      the top? Apparently, not.

      It is true, in a time of external Peace, when there is no
      fighting but only drilling, this question, How you rise from the
      ranks, may seem theoretical rather. But in reference to the
      Rights of Man it is continually practical. The soldier has sworn
      to be faithful not to the King only, but to the Law and the
      Nation. Do our commanders love the Revolution? ask all soldiers.
      Unhappily no, they hate it, and love the Counter-Revolution.
      Young epauletted men, with quality-blood in them, poisoned with
      quality-pride, do sniff openly, with indignation struggling to
      become contempt, at our Rights of Man, as at some newfangled
      cobweb, which shall be brushed down again. Old officers, more
      cautious, keep silent, with closed uncurled lips; but one guesses
      what is passing within. Nay who knows, how, under the plausiblest
      word of command, might lie Counter-Revolution itself, sale to
      Exiled Princes and the Austrian Kaiser: treacherous Aristocrats
      hoodwinking the small insight of us common men?—In such manner
      works that general raw-material of grievance; disastrous; instead
      of trust and reverence, breeding hate, endless suspicion, the
      impossibility of commanding and obeying. And now when this second
      more tangible grievance has articulated itself universally in the
      mind of the common man: Peculation of his Pay! Peculation of the
      despicablest sort does exist, and has long existed; but, unless
      the new-declared Rights of Man, and all rights whatsoever, be a
      cobweb, it shall no longer exist.

      The French Military System seems dying a sorrowful suicidal
      death. Nay more, citizen, as is natural, ranks himself against
      citizen in this cause. The soldier finds audience, of numbers and
      sympathy unlimited, among the Patriot lower-classes. Nor are the
      higher wanting to the officer. The officer still dresses and
      perfumes himself for such sad unemigrated _soirée_ as there may
      still be; and speaks his woes,—which woes, are they not Majesty’s
      and Nature’s? Speaks, at the same time, his gay defiance, his
      firm-set resolution. Citizens, still more Citizenesses, see the
      right and the wrong; not the Military System alone will die by
      suicide, but much along with it. As was said, there is yet
      possible a deepest overturn than any yet witnessed: that deepest
      _up_turn of the black-burning sulphurous stratum whereon all
      rests and grows!

      But how these things may act on the rude soldier-mind, with its
      military pedantries, its inexperience of all that lies off the
      parade-ground; inexperience as of a child, yet fierceness of a
      man and vehemence of a Frenchman! It is long that secret
      communings in mess-room and guard-room, sour looks, thousandfold
      petty vexations between commander and commanded, measure every
      where the weary military day. Ask Captain Dampmartin; an
      authentic, ingenious literary officer of horse; who loves the
      Reign of Liberty, after a sort; yet has had his heart grieved to
      the quick many times, in the hot South-Western region and
      elsewhere; and has seen riot, civil battle by daylight and by
      torchlight, and anarchy hatefuller than death. How insubordinate
      Troopers, with drink in their heads, meet Captain Dampmartin and
      another on the ramparts, where there is no escape or side-path;
      and make military salute punctually, for we look calm on them;
      yet make it in a snappish, almost insulting manner: how one
      morning they “leave all their chamois shirts” and superfluous
      buffs, which they are tired of, laid in piles at the Captain’s
      doors; whereat “we laugh,” as the ass does, eating thistles: nay
      how they “knot two forage-cords together,” with universal noisy
      cursing, with evident intent to hang the Quarter-master:—all this
      the worthy Captain, looking on it through the ruddy-and-sable of
      fond regretful memory, has flowingly written down.[308] Men growl
      in vague discontent; officers fling up their commissions, and
      emigrate in disgust.

      Or let us ask another literary Officer; not yet Captain;
      Sublieutenant only, in the Artillery Regiment La Fère: a young
      man of twenty-one; not unentitled to speak; the name of him is
      _Napoleon Buonaparte._ To such height of Sublieutenancy has he
      now got promoted, from Brienne School, five years ago; “being
      found qualified in mathematics by La Place.” He is lying at
      Auxonne, in the West, in these months; not sumptuously lodged—“in
      the house of a Barber, to whose wife he did not pay the customary
      degree of respect;” or even over at the Pavilion, in a chamber
      with bare walls; the only furniture an indifferent “bed without
      curtains, two chairs, and in the recess of a window a table
      covered with books and papers: his Brother Louis sleeps on a
      coarse mattrass in an adjoining room.” However, he is doing
      something great: writing his first Book or Pamphlet,—eloquent
      vehement _Letter to M. Matteo Buttafuoco_, our Corsican Deputy,
      who is not a Patriot but an Aristocrat, unworthy of Deputyship.
      Joly of Dôle is Publisher. The literary Sublieutenant corrects
      the proofs; “sets out on foot from Auxonne, every morning at four
      o’clock, for Dôle: after looking over the proofs, he partakes of
      an extremely frugal breakfast with Joly, and immediately prepares
      for returning to his Garrison; where he arrives before noon,
      having thus walked above twenty miles in the course of the
      morning.”

      This Sublieutenant can remark that, in drawing-rooms, on streets,
      on highways, at inns, every where men’s minds are ready to kindle
      into a flame. That a Patriot, if he appear in the drawing-room,
      or amid a group of officers, is liable enough to be discouraged,
      so great is the majority against him: but no sooner does he get
      into the street, or among the soldiers, than he feels again as if
      the whole Nation were with him. That after the famous Oath, _To
      the King, to the Nation and Law_, there was a great change; that
      before this, if ordered to fire on the people, he for one would
      have done it in the King’s name; but that after this, in the
      Nation’s name, he would not have done it. Likewise that the
      Patriot officers, more numerous too in the Artillery and
      Engineers than elsewhere, were few in number; yet that having the
      soldiers on their side, they ruled the regiment; and did often
      deliver the Aristocrat brother officer out of peril and strait.
      One day, for example, “a member of our own mess roused the mob,
      by singing, from the windows of our dining-room, _O Richard, O my
      King;_ and I had to snatch him from their fury.”[309]

      All which let the reader multiply by ten thousand; and spread it
      with slight variations over all the camps and garrisons of
      France. The French Army seems on the verge of universal mutiny.

      Universal mutiny! There is in that what may well make Patriot
      Constitutionalism and an august Assembly shudder. Something
      behoves to be done; yet what to do no man can tell. Mirabeau
      proposes even that the Soldiery, having come to such a pass, be
      forthwith disbanded, the whole Two Hundred and Eighty Thousands
      of them; and organised anew.[310] Impossible this, in so sudden a
      manner! cry all men. And yet literally, answer we, it is
      inevitable, in one manner or another. Such an Army, with its
      four-generation Nobles, its Peculated Pay, and men knotting
      forage cords to hang their quartermaster, cannot subsist beside
      such a Revolution. Your alternative is a slow-pining chronic
      dissolution and new organization; or a swift decisive one; the
      agonies spread over years, or concentrated into an hour. With a
      Mirabeau for Minister or Governor the latter had been the choice;
      with no Mirabeau for Governor it will naturally be the former.


      Chapter 2.2.III.
      Bouillé at Metz.

      To Bouillé, in his North-Eastern circle, none of these things are
      altogether hid. Many times flight over the marches gleams out on
      him as a last guidance in such bewilderment: nevertheless he
      continues here: struggling always to hope the best, not from new
      organisation but from happy Counter-Revolution and return to the
      old. For the rest it is clear to him that this same National
      Federation, and universal swearing and fraternising of People and
      Soldiers, has done “incalculable mischief.” So much that
      fermented secretly has hereby got vent and become open: National
      Guards and Soldiers of the line, solemnly embracing one another
      on all parade-fields, drinking, swearing patriotic oaths, fall
      into disorderly street-processions, constitutional unmilitary
      exclamations and hurrahings. On which account the Regiment
      Picardie, for one, has to be drawn out in the square of the
      barracks, here at Metz, and sharply harangued by the General
      himself; but expresses penitence.[311]

      Far and near, as accounts testify, insubordination has begun
      grumbling louder and louder. Officers have been seen shut up in
      their mess-rooms; assaulted with clamorous demands, not without
      menaces. The insubordinate ringleader is dismissed with “yellow
      furlough,” yellow infamous thing they call _cartouche jaune:_ but
      ten new ringleaders rise in his stead, and the yellow _cartouche_
      ceases to be thought disgraceful. “Within a fortnight,” or at
      furthest a month, of that sublime Feast of Pikes, the whole
      French Army, demanding Arrears, forming Reading Clubs,
      frequenting Popular Societies, is in a state which Bouillé can
      call by no name but that of mutiny. Bouillé knows it as few do;
      and speaks by dire experience. Take one instance instead of many.

      It is still an early day of August, the precise date now
      undiscoverable, when Bouillé, about to set out for the waters of
      Aix la Chapelle, is once more suddenly summoned to the barracks
      of Metz. The soldiers stand ranked in fighting order, muskets
      loaded, the officers all there on compulsion; and require, with
      many-voiced emphasis, to have their arrears paid. Picardie was
      penitent; but we see it has relapsed: the wide space bristles and
      lours with mere mutinous armed men. Brave Bouillé advances to the
      nearest Regiment, opens his commanding lips to harangue; obtains
      nothing but querulous-indignant discordance, and the sound of so
      many thousand livres legally due. The moment is trying; there are
      some ten thousand soldiers now in Metz, and one spirit seems to
      have spread among them.

      Bouillé is firm as the adamant; but what shall he do? A German
      Regiment, named of Salm, is thought to be of better temper:
      nevertheless Salm too may have heard of the precept, _Thou shalt
      not steal;_ Salm too may know that money is money. Bouillé walks
      trustfully towards the Regiment de Salm, speaks trustful words;
      but here again is answered by the cry of forty-four thousand
      livres odd sous. A cry waxing more and more vociferous, as Salm’s
      humour mounts; which cry, as it will produce no cash or promise
      of cash, ends in the wide simultaneous whirr of shouldered
      muskets, and a determined quick-time march on the part of
      Salm—towards its Colonel’s house, in the next street, there to
      seize the colours and military chest. Thus does Salm, for its
      part; strong in the faith that _meum_ is not _tuum_, that fair
      speeches are not forty-four thousand livres odd sous.

      Unrestrainable! Salm tramps to military time, quick consuming the
      way. Bouillé and the officers, drawing sword, have to dash into
      double quick _pas-de-charge_, or unmilitary running; to get the
      start; to station themselves on the outer staircase, and stand
      there with what of death-defiance and sharp steel they have; Salm
      truculently coiling itself up, rank after rank, opposite them, in
      such humour as we can fancy, which happily has not yet mounted to
      the murder-pitch. There will Bouillé stand, certain at least of
      _one_ man’s purpose; in grim calmness, awaiting the issue. What
      the intrepidest of men and generals can do is done. Bouillé,
      though there is a barricading picket at each end of the street,
      and death under his eyes, contrives to send for a Dragoon
      Regiment with orders to charge: the dragoon officers mount; the
      dragoon men will not: hope is none there for him. The street, as
      we say, barricaded; the Earth all shut out, only the indifferent
      heavenly Vault overhead: perhaps here or there a timorous
      householder peering out of window, with prayer for Bouillé;
      copious Rascality, on the pavement, with prayer for Salm: there
      do the two parties stand;—like chariots locked in a narrow
      thoroughfare; like locked wrestlers at a dead-grip! For two hours
      they stand; Bouillé’s sword glittering in his hand, adamantine
      resolution clouding his brows: for two hours by the clocks of
      Metz. Moody-silent stands Salm, with occasional clangour; but
      does not fire. Rascality from time to time urges some grenadier
      to level his musket at the General; who looks on it as a bronze
      General would; and always some corporal or other strikes it up.

      In such remarkable attitude, standing on that staircase for two
      hours, does brave Bouillé, long a shadow, dawn on us visibly out
      of the dimness, and become a person. For the rest, since Salm has
      not shot him at the first instant, and since in himself there is
      no variableness, the danger will diminish. The Mayor, “a man
      infinitely respectable,” with his Municipals and tricolor sashes,
      finally gains entrance; remonstrates, perorates, promises; gets
      Salm persuaded home to its barracks. Next day, our respectable
      Mayor lending the money, the officers pay down the _half_ of the
      demand in ready cash. With which liquidation Salm pacifies
      itself, and for the present all is hushed up, as much as may
      be.[312]

      Such scenes as this of Metz, or preparations and demonstrations
      towards such, are universal over France: Dampmartin, with his
      knotted forage-cords and piled chamois jackets, is at Strasburg
      in the South-East; in these same days or rather nights, Royal
      Champagne is “shouting _Vive la Nation, au diable les
      Aristocrates_, with some thirty lit candles,” at Hesdin, on the
      far North-West. ‘The garrison of Bitche,’ Deputy Rewbell is sorry
      to state, ‘went out of the town, with drums beating; deposed its
      officers; and then returned into the town, sabre in hand.’[313]
      Ought not a National Assembly to occupy itself with these
      objects? Military France is everywhere full of sour inflammatory
      humour, which exhales itself fuliginously, this way or that: a
      whole continent of smoking flax; which, blown on here or there by
      any angry wind, might so easily start into a blaze, into a
      continent of fire!

      Constitutional Patriotism is in deep natural alarm at these
      things. The august Assembly sits diligently deliberating; dare
      nowise resolve, with Mirabeau, on an instantaneous disbandment
      and extinction; finds that a course of palliatives is easier. But
      at least and lowest, this grievance of the Arrears shall be
      rectified. A plan, much noised of in those days, under the name
      “Decree of the Sixth of August,” has been devised for that.
      Inspectors shall visit all armies; and, with certain elected
      corporals and “soldiers able to write,” verify what arrears and
      peculations do lie due, and make them good. Well, if in this way
      the smoky heat be cooled down; if it be not, as we say,
      ventilated over-much, or, by sparks and collision somewhere, sent
      _up!_


      Chapter 2.2.IV.
      Arrears at Nanci.

      We are to remark, however, that of all districts, this of
      Bouillé’s seems the inflammablest. It was always to Bouillé and
      Metz that Royalty would fly: Austria lies near; here more than
      elsewhere must the disunited People look over the borders, into a
      dim sea of Foreign Politics and Diplomacies, with hope or
      apprehension, with mutual exasperation.

      It was but in these days that certain Austrian troops, marching
      peaceably across an angle of this region, seemed an Invasion
      realised; and there rushed towards Stenai, with musket on
      shoulder, from all the winds, some thirty thousand National
      Guards, to inquire what the matter was.[314] A matter of mere
      diplomacy it proved; the Austrian Kaiser, in haste to get to
      Belgium, had bargained for this short cut. The infinite dim
      movement of European Politics waved a skirt over these spaces,
      passing on its way; like the passing shadow of a condor; and such
      a winged flight of thirty thousand, with mixed cackling and
      crowing, rose in consequence! For, in addition to all, this
      people, as we said, is much divided: Aristocrats abound;
      Patriotism has both Aristocrats and Austrians to watch. It is
      Lorraine, this region; not so illuminated as old France: it
      remembers ancient Feudalisms; nay, within man’s memory, it had a
      Court and King of its own, or indeed the splendour of a Court and
      King, without the burden. Then, contrariwise, the Mother Society,
      which sits in the Jacobins Church at Paris, has Daughters in the
      Towns here; shrill-tongued, driven acrid: consider how the memory
      of good King Stanislaus, and ages of Imperial Feudalism, may
      comport with this New acrid Evangel, and what a virulence of
      discord there may be! In all which, the Soldiery, officers on one
      side, private men on the other, takes part, and now indeed
      principal part; a Soldiery, moreover, all the hotter here as it
      lies the denser, the frontier Province requiring more of it.

      So stands Lorraine: but the capital City, more especially so. The
      pleasant City of Nanci, which faded Feudalism loves, where King
      Stanislaus personally dwelt and shone, has an Aristocrat
      Municipality, and then also a Daughter Society: it has some forty
      thousand divided souls of population; and three large Regiments,
      one of which is Swiss Château-Vieux, dear to Patriotism ever
      since it refused fighting, or was thought to refuse, in the
      Bastille days. Here unhappily all evil influences seem to meet
      concentered; here, of all places, may jealousy and heat evolve
      itself. These many months, accordingly, man has been set against
      man, Washed against Unwashed; Patriot Soldier against Aristocrat
      Captain, ever the more bitterly; and a long score of grudges has
      been running up.

      Nameable grudges, and likewise unnameable: for there is a
      punctual nature in Wrath; and daily, were there but glances of
      the eye, tones of the voice, and minutest commissions or
      omissions, it will jot down somewhat, to account, under the head
      of sundries, which always swells the sum-total. For example, in
      April last, in those times of preliminary Federation, when
      National Guards and Soldiers were every where swearing
      brotherhood, and all France was locally federating, preparing for
      the grand National Feast of Pikes, it was observed that these
      Nanci Officers threw cold water on the whole brotherly business;
      that they first hung back from appearing at the Nanci Federation;
      then did appear, but in mere _rédingote_ and undress, with
      scarcely a clean shirt on; nay that one of them, as the National
      Colours flaunted by in that solemn moment, did, without visible
      necessity, take occasion to _spit_.[315]

      Small “sundries as per journal,” but then incessant ones! The
      Aristocrat Municipality, pretending to be Constitutional, keeps
      mostly quiet; not so the Daughter Society, the five thousand
      adult male Patriots of the place, still less the five thousand
      female: not so the young, whiskered or whiskerless,
      four-generation Noblesse in epaulettes; the grim Patriot Swiss of
      Château-Vieux, effervescent infantry of Regiment du Roi, hot
      troopers of Mestre-de-Camp! Walled Nanci, which stands so bright
      and trim, with its straight streets, spacious squares, and
      Stanislaus’ Architecture, on the fruitful alluvium of the
      Meurthe; so bright, amid the yellow cornfields in these
      Reaper-Months,—is inwardly but a den of discord, anxiety,
      inflammability, not far from exploding. Let Bouillé look to it.
      If that universal military heat, which we liken to a vast
      continent of smoking flax, do any where take fire, his beard,
      here in Lorraine and Nanci, may the most readily of all get
      singed by it.

      Bouillé, for his part, is busy enough, but only with the general
      superintendence; getting his pacified Salm, and all other still
      tolerable Regiments, marched out of Metz, to southward towns and
      villages; to rural Cantonments as at Vic, Marsal and thereabout,
      by the still waters; where is plenty of horse-forage, sequestered
      parade-ground, and the soldier’s speculative faculty can be
      stilled by drilling. Salm, as we said, received only half payment
      of arrears; naturally not without grumbling. Nevertheless that
      scene of the drawn sword may, after all, have raised Bouillé in
      the mind of Salm; for men and soldiers love intrepidity and swift
      inflexible decision, even when they suffer by it. As indeed is
      not this fundamentally the quality of qualities for a man? A
      quality which by itself is next to nothing, since inferior
      animals, asses, dogs, even mules have it; yet, in due
      combination, it is the indispensable basis of all.

      Of Nanci and its heats, Bouillé, commander of the whole, knows
      nothing special; understands generally that the troops in that
      City are perhaps the _worst_.[316] The Officers there have it
      all, as they have long had it, to themselves; and unhappily seem
      to manage it ill. “Fifty yellow furloughs,” given out in one
      batch, do surely betoken difficulties. But what was Patriotism to
      think of certain light-fencing Fusileers “set on,” or supposed to
      be set on, “to insult the Grenadier-club,” considerate
      speculative Grenadiers, and that reading-room of theirs? With
      shoutings, with hootings; till the speculative Grenadier drew his
      side-arms too; and there ensued battery and duels! Nay more, are
      not swashbucklers of the same stamp “sent out” visibly, or sent
      out presumably, now in the dress of Soldiers to pick quarrels
      with the Citizens; now, disguised as Citizens, to pick quarrels
      with the Soldiers? For a certain Roussière, expert in fence, was
      taken in the very fact; four Officers (presumably of tender
      years) hounding him on, who thereupon fled precipitately!
      Fence-master Roussière, haled to the guardhouse, had sentence of
      three months’ imprisonment: but his comrades demanded “yellow
      furlough” for _him_ of all persons; nay, thereafter they produced
      him on parade; capped him in paper-helmet inscribed, _Iscariot;_
      marched him to the gate of City; and there sternly commanded him
      to vanish for evermore.

      On all which suspicions, accusations and noisy procedure, and on
      enough of the like continually accumulating, the Officer could
      not but look with disdainful indignation; perhaps disdainfully
      express the same in words, and “soon after fly over to the
      Austrians.”

      So that when it here as elsewhere comes to the question of
      Arrears, the humour and procedure is of the bitterest: Regiment
      Mestre-de-Camp getting, amid loud clamour, some three gold louis
      a-man,—which have, as usual, to be borrowed from the
      Municipality; Swiss Château-Vieux applying for the like, but
      getting instead instantaneous _courrois_, or cat-o’-nine-tails,
      with subsequent unsufferable hisses from the women and children;
      Regiment du Roi, sick of hope deferred, at length seizing its
      military chest, and marching it to quarters, but next day
      marching it back again, through streets all struck
      silent:—unordered paradings and clamours, not without strong
      liquor; objurgation, insubordination; your military ranked
      Arrangement going all (as the Typographers say of set types, in a
      similar case) rapidly _to pie!_[317] Such is Nanci in these early
      days of August; the sublime Feast of Pikes not yet a month old.

      Constitutional Patriotism, at Paris and elsewhere, may well quake
      at the news. War-Minister Latour du Pin runs breathless to the
      National Assembly, with a written message that “all is burning,
      _tout brûle, tout presse_.” The National Assembly, on spur of the
      instant, renders such _Decret_, and “order to submit and repent,”
      as he requires; if it will avail any thing. On the other hand,
      Journalism, through all its throats, gives hoarse outcry,
      condemnatory, elegiac-applausive. The Forty-eight Sections, lift
      up voices; sonorous Brewer, or call him now _Colonel_ Santerre,
      is not silent, in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. For, meanwhile, the
      Nanci Soldiers have sent a Deputation of Ten, furnished with
      documents and proofs; who will tell another story than the
      “all-is-burning” one. Which deputed Ten, before ever they reach
      the Assembly Hall, assiduous Latour du Pin picks up, and on
      warrant of Mayor Bailly, claps in prison! Most
      unconstitutionally; for they had officers’ furloughs. Whereupon
      Saint-Antoine, in indignant uncertainty of the future, closes its
      shops. Is Bouillé a traitor then, sold to Austria? In that case,
      these poor private sentinels have revolted mainly out of
      Patriotism?

      New Deputation, Deputation of National Guardsmen now, sets forth
      from Nanci to enlighten the Assembly. It meets the old deputed
      Ten returning, quite unexpectedly _un_hanged; and proceeds
      thereupon with better prospects; but effects nothing.
      Deputations, Government Messengers, Orderlies at hand-gallops,
      Alarms, thousand-voiced Rumours, go vibrating continually;
      backwards and forwards,—scattering distraction. Not till the last
      week of August does M. de Malseigne, selected as Inspector, get
      down to the scene of mutiny; with Authority, with cash, and
      “Decree of the Sixth of August.” He now shall see these Arrears
      liquidated, justice done, or at least tumult quashed.


      Chapter 2.2.V.
      Inspector Malseigne.

      Of Inspector Malseigne we discern, by direct light, that he is
      “of Herculean stature;” and infer, with probability, that he is
      of truculent moustachioed aspect,—for _Royalist_ Officers now
      leave the upper lip unshaven; that he is of indomitable
      bull-heart; and also, unfortunately, of thick bull-head.

      On Tuesday the 24th of August, 1790, he opens session as
      Inspecting Commissioner; meets those “elected corporals, and
      soldiers that can write.” He finds the accounts of Château-Vieux
      to be complex; to require delay and reference: he takes to
      haranguing, to reprimanding; ends amid audible grumbling. Next
      morning, he resumes session, not at the Townhall as prudent
      Municipals counselled, but once more at the barracks.
      Unfortunately Château-Vieux, grumbling all night, will now hear
      of no delay or reference; from reprimanding on his part, it goes
      to bullying,—answered with continual cries of ‘_Jugez tout de
      suite_, Judge it at once;’ whereupon M. de Malseigne will off in
      a huff. But lo, Château Vieux, swarming all about the
      barrack-court, has sentries at every gate; M. de Malseigne,
      demanding egress, cannot get it, though Commandant Denoue backs
      him; can get only ‘_Jugez tout de suite_.’ Here is a nodus!

      Bull-hearted M. de Malseigne draws his sword; and will force
      egress. Confused splutter. M. de Malseigne’s sword breaks; he
      snatches Commandant Denoue’s: the sentry is wounded. M. de
      Malseigne, whom one is loath to kill, does force egress,—followed
      by Château-Vieux all in disarray; a spectacle to Nanci. M. de
      Malseigne walks at a sharp pace, yet never runs; wheeling from
      time to time, with menaces and movements of fence; and so reaches
      Denoue’s house, unhurt; which house Château-Vieux, in an agitated
      manner, invests,—hindered as yet from entering, by a crowd of
      officers formed on the staircase. M. de Malseigne retreats by
      back ways to the Townhall, flustered though undaunted; amid an
      escort of National Guards. From the Townhall he, on the morrow,
      emits fresh orders, fresh plans of settlement with Château-Vieux;
      to none of which will Château-Vieux listen: whereupon finally he,
      amid noise enough, emits order that Château-Vieux shall march on
      the morrow morning, and quarter at Sarre Louis. Château-Vieux
      flatly refuses marching; M. de Malseigne “takes _act_,” due
      notarial protest, of such refusal,—if happily that may avail him.

      This is end of Thursday; and, indeed, of M. de Malseigne’s
      Inspectorship, which has lasted some fifty hours. To such length,
      in fifty hours, has he unfortunately brought it. Mestre-de-Camp
      and Regiment du Roi hang, as it were, fluttering: Château-Vieux
      is clean gone, in what way we see. Over night, an Aide-de-Camp of
      Lafayette’s, stationed here for such emergency, sends swift
      emissaries far and wide, to summon National Guards. The slumber
      of the country is broken by clattering hoofs, by loud fraternal
      knockings; every where the Constitutional Patriot must clutch his
      fighting-gear, and take the road for Nanci.

      And thus the Herculean Inspector has sat all Thursday, among
      terror-struck Municipals, a centre of confused noise: all
      Thursday, Friday, and till Saturday towards noon. Château-Vieux,
      in spite of the notarial protest, will not march a step. As many
      as four thousand National Guards are dropping or pouring in;
      uncertain what is expected of them, still more uncertain what
      will be obtained of them. For all is uncertainty, commotion, and
      suspicion: there goes a word that Bouillé, beginning to bestir
      himself in the rural Cantonments eastward, is but a Royalist
      traitor; that Château-Vieux and Patriotism are sold to Austria,
      of which latter M. de Malseigne is probably some agent.
      Mestre-de-Camp and Roi flutter still more questionably:
      Château-Vieux, far from marching, “waves red flags out of two
      carriages,” in a passionate manner, along the streets; and next
      morning answers its Officers: ‘Pay us, then; and we will march
      with you to the world’s end!’

      Under which circumstances, towards noon on Saturday, M. de
      Malseigne thinks it were good perhaps to inspect the ramparts,—on
      horseback. He mounts, accordingly, with escort of three troopers.
      At the gate of the city, he bids two of them wait for his return;
      and with the third, a trooper to be depended upon, he—gallops off
      for Lunéville; where lies a certain Carabineer Regiment not yet
      in a mutinous state! The two left troopers soon get uneasy;
      discover how it is, and give the alarm. Mestre-de-Camp, to the
      number of a hundred, saddles in frantic haste, as if sold to
      Austria; gallops out pellmell in chase of its Inspector. And so
      they spur, and the Inspector spurs; careering, with noise and
      jingle, up the valley of the River Meurthe, towards Lunéville and
      the midday sun: through an astonished country; indeed almost
      their own astonishment.

      What a hunt, Actæon-like;—which Actæon de Malseigne happily
      _gains._ To arms, ye Carabineers of Lunéville: to chastise
      mutinous men, insulting your General Officer, insulting your own
      quarters;—above all things, fire _soon_, lest there be parleying
      and ye refuse to fire! The Carabineers fire soon, exploding upon
      the first stragglers of Mestre-de-Camp; who shrink at the very
      flash, and fall back hastily on Nanci, in a state not far from
      distraction. Panic and fury: sold to Austria without an _if;_ so
      much per regiment, the very sums can be specified; and traitorous
      Malseigne is fled! Help, O Heaven; help, thou Earth,—ye unwashed
      Patriots; ye too are sold like us!

      Effervescent Regiment du Roi primes its firelocks, Mestre-de-Camp
      saddles wholly: Commandant Denoue is seized, is flung in prison
      with a “canvass shirt” (_sarreau de toile_) about him;
      Château-Vieux bursts up the magazines; distributes “three
      thousand fusils” to a Patriot people: Austria shall have a hot
      bargain. Alas, the unhappy hunting-dogs, as we said, have _hunted
      away_ their huntsman; and do now run howling and baying, on what
      trail they know not; nigh rabid!

      And so there is tumultuous march of men, through the night; with
      halt on the heights of Flinval, whence Lunéville can be seen all
      illuminated. Then there is parley, at four in the morning; and
      reparley; finally there is agreement: the Carabineers give in;
      Malseigne is surrendered, with apologies on all sides. After
      weary confused hours, he is even got under way; the Lunévillers
      all turning out, in the idle Sunday, to see such departure:
      home-going of mutinous Mestre-de-Camp with its Inspector captive.
      Mestre-de-Camp accordingly marches; the Lunévillers look. See! at
      the corner of the first street, our Inspector bounds off again,
      bull-hearted as he is; amid the slash of sabres, the crackle of
      musketry; and escapes, full gallop, with only a ball lodged in
      his buff-_jerkin_. The Herculean man! And yet it is an escape to
      no purpose. For the Carabineers, to whom after the hardest
      Sunday’s ride on record, he has come circling back, “stand
      deliberating by their nocturnal watch-fires;” deliberating of
      Austria, of traitors, and the rage of Mestre-de-Camp. So that, on
      the whole, the next sight we have is that of M. de Malseigne, on
      the Monday afternoon, faring bull-hearted through the streets of
      Nanci; in open carriage, a soldier standing over him with drawn
      sword; amid the “furies of the women,” hedges of National Guards,
      and confusion of Babel: to the Prison beside Commandant Denoue!
      That finally is the lodging of Inspector Malseigne.[318]

      Surely it is time Bouillé were drawing near. The Country all
      round, alarmed with watchfires, illuminated towns, and marching
      and rout, has been sleepless these several nights. Nanci, with
      its uncertain National Guards, with its distributed fusils,
      mutinous soldiers, black panic and redhot ire, is not a City but
      a Bedlam.


      Chapter 2.2.VI.
      Bouillé at Nanci.

      Haste with help, thou brave Bouillé: if swift help come not, all
      is now verily “burning;” and may burn,—to what lengths and
      breadths! Much, in these hours, depends on Bouillé; as it shall
      now fare with him, the whole Future may be this way or be that.
      If, for example, he were to loiter dubitating, and not come: if
      he were to come, and fail: the whole Soldiery of France to blaze
      into mutiny, National Guards going some this way, some that; and
      Royalism to draw its rapier, and Sansculottism to snatch its
      pike; and the Spirit if Jacobinism, as yet young, girt with
      sun-rays, to grow instantaneously mature, girt with hell-fire,—as
      mortals, in one night of deadly crisis, have had their heads
      turned gray!

      Brave Bouillé is advancing fast, with the old inflexibility;
      gathering himself, unhappily “in small affluences,” from East,
      from West and North; and now on Tuesday morning, the last day of
      the month, he stands all concentred, unhappily still in small
      force, at the village of Frouarde, within some few miles. Son of
      Adam with a more dubious task before him is not in the world this
      Tuesday morning. A weltering inflammable sea of doubt and peril,
      and Bouillé sure of simply one thing, his own determination.
      Which one thing, indeed, may be worth many. He puts a most firm
      face on the matter: “Submission, or unsparing battle and
      destruction; twenty-four hours to make your choice:” this was the
      tenor of his Proclamation; thirty copies of which he sent
      yesterday to Nanci:—all which, we find, were intercepted and not
      posted.[319]

      Nevertheless, at half-past eleven, this morning, seemingly by way
      of answer, there does wait on him at Frouarde, some Deputation
      from the mutinous Regiments, from the Nanci Municipals, to see
      what can be done. Bouillé receives this Deputation, “in a large
      open court adjoining his lodging:” pacified Salm, and the rest,
      attend also, being invited to do it,—all happily still in the
      right humour. The Mutineers pronounce themselves with a
      decisiveness, which to Bouillé seems insolence; and happily to
      Salm also. Salm, forgetful of the Metz staircase and sabre,
      demands that the scoundrels “be hanged” there and then. Bouillé
      represses the hanging; but answers that mutinous Soldiers have
      one course, and not more than one: To liberate, with heartfelt
      contrition, Messieurs Denoue and de Malseigne; to get ready
      forthwith for marching off, whither he shall order; and “submit
      and repent,” as the National Assembly has decreed, as he
      yesterday did in thirty printed Placards proclaim. These are his
      terms, unalterable as the decrees of Destiny. Which terms as
      they, the Mutineer deputies, seemingly do not accept, it were
      good for them to vanish from this spot, and even promptly; with
      him too, in few instants, the word will be, Forward! The Mutineer
      deputies vanish, not unpromptly; the Municipal ones, anxious
      beyond right for their own individualities, prefer abiding with
      Bouillé.

      Brave Bouillé, though he puts a most firm face on the matter,
      knows his position full well: how at Nanci, what with rebellious
      soldiers, with uncertain National Guards, and so many distributed
      fusils, there rage and roar some ten thousand fighting men; while
      with himself is scarcely the third part of that number, in
      National Guards also uncertain, in mere pacified Regiments,—for
      the present full of rage, and clamour to march; but whose rage
      and clamour may next moment take such a fatal new figure. On the
      top of one uncertain billow, therewith to calm billows! Bouillé
      must “abandon himself to Fortune;” who is said sometimes to
      favour the brave. At half-past twelve, the Mutineer deputies
      having vanished, our drums beat; we march: for Nanci! Let Nanci
      bethink itself, then; for Bouillé has thought and determined.

      And yet how shall Nanci think: not a City but a Bedlam! Grim
      Château-Vieux is for defence to the death; forces the
      Municipality to order, by tap of drum, all citizens acquainted
      with artillery to turn out, and assist in managing the cannon. On
      the other hand, effervescent Regiment du Roi, is drawn up in its
      barracks; quite disconsolate, hearing the humour Salm is in; and
      ejaculates dolefully from its thousand throats: ‘_La loi, la
      loi_, Law, law!’ Mestre-de-Camp blusters, with profane swearing,
      in mixed terror and furor; National Guards look this way and
      that, not knowing what to do. What a Bedlam-City: as many plans
      as heads; all ordering, none obeying: quiet none,—except the
      Dead, who sleep underground, having _done_ their fighting!

      And, behold, Bouillé proves as good as his word: “at half-past
      two” scouts report that he is within half a league of the gates;
      rattling along, with cannon, and array; breathing nothing but
      destruction. A new Deputation, Municipals, Mutineers, Officers,
      goes out to meet him; with passionate entreaty for yet one other
      hour. Bouillé grants an hour. Then, at the end thereof, no Denoue
      or Malseigne appearing as promised, he rolls his drums, and again
      takes the road. Towards four o’clock, the terror-struck Townsmen
      may see him face to face. His cannons rattle there, in their
      carriages; his vanguard is within thirty paces of the Gate
      Stanislaus. Onward like a Planet, by appointed times, by law of
      Nature! What next? Lo, flag of truce and chamade; conjuration to
      halt: Malseigne and Denoue are on the street, coming hither; the
      soldiers all repentant, ready to submit and march! Adamantine
      Bouillé’s look alters not; yet the word _Halt_ is given: gladder
      moment he never saw. Joy of joys! Malseigne and Denoue do verily
      issue; escorted by National Guards; from streets all frantic,
      with sale to Austria and so forth: they salute Bouillé,
      unscathed. Bouillé steps aside to speak with them, and with other
      heads of the Town there; having already ordered by what Gates and
      Routes the mutineer Regiments shall file out.

      Such colloquy with these two General Officers and other principal
      Townsmen, was natural enough; nevertheless one wishes Bouillé had
      postponed it, and _not_ stepped aside. Such tumultuous
      inflammable masses, tumbling along, making way for each other;
      this of keen nitrous oxide, that of sulphurous fire-damp,—were it
      not well to stand _between_ them, keeping them well separate,
      till the space be cleared? Numerous stragglers of Château-Vieux
      and the rest have not marched with their main columns, which are
      filing out by the appointed Gates, taking station in the open
      meadows. National Guards are in a state of nearly distracted
      uncertainty; the populace, armed and unharmed, roll openly
      delirious,—betrayed, sold to the Austrians, sold to the
      Aristocrats. There are loaded cannon with lit matches among them,
      and Bouillé’s vanguard is halted within thirty paces of the Gate.
      Command dwells not in that mad inflammable mass; which smoulders
      and tumbles there, in blind smoky rage; which will not open the
      Gate when summoned; says it will open the cannon’s throat
      sooner!—Cannonade not, O Friends, or be it through my body! cries
      heroic young Desilles, young Captain of _Roi_, clasping the
      murderous engine in his arms, and holding it. Château-Vieux
      Swiss, by main force, with oaths and menaces, wrench off the
      heroic youth; who undaunted, amid still louder oaths seats
      himself on the touch-hole. Amid still louder oaths; with ever
      louder clangour,—and, alas, with the loud crackle of first one,
      and then three other muskets; which explode into his body; which
      roll _it_ in the dust,—and do also, in the loud madness of such
      moment, bring lit cannon-match to ready priming; and so, with one
      thunderous belch of grapeshot, blast some fifty of Bouillé’s
      vanguard into air!

      Fatal! That sputter of the first musket-shot has kindled such a
      cannon-shot, such a death-blaze; and all is now redhot madness,
      conflagration as of Tophet. With demoniac rage, the Bouillé
      vanguard storms through that Gate Stanislaus; with fiery sweep,
      sweeps Mutiny clear away, to death, or into shelters and cellars;
      from which latter, again, Mutiny continues firing. The ranked
      Regiments hear it in their meadow; they rush back again through
      the nearest Gates; Bouillé gallops in, distracted, inaudible;—and
      now has begun, in Nanci, as in that doomed Hall of the
      Nibelungen, “a murder grim and great.”

      Miserable: such scene of dismal aimless madness as the anger of
      Heaven but rarely permits among men! From cellar or from garret,
      from open street in front, from successive corners of
      cross-streets on each hand, Château-Vieux and Patriotism keep up
      the murderous rolling-fire, on murderous not Unpatriotic fires.
      Your blue National Captain, riddled with balls, one hardly knows
      on whose side fighting, requests to be laid on the colours to
      die: the patriotic Woman (name not given, deed surviving) screams
      to Château-Vieux that it must _not_ fire the other cannon; and
      even flings a pail of water on it, since screaming avails
      not.[320] Thou shalt fight; thou shalt not fight; and with whom
      shalt thou fight! Could tumult awaken the old Dead, Burgundian
      Charles the Bold might stir from under that Rotunda of his: never
      since he, raging, sank in the ditches, and lost Life and Diamond,
      was such a noise heard here.

      Three thousand, as some count, lie mangled, gory; the half of
      Château-Vieux has been shot, without need of Court Martial.
      Cavalry, of Mestre-de-Camp or their foes, can do little. Regiment
      du Roi was persuaded to its barracks; stands there palpitating.
      Bouillé, armed with the terrors of the Law, and favoured of
      Fortune, finally triumphs. In two murderous hours he has
      penetrated to the grand Squares, dauntless, though with loss of
      forty officers and five hundred men: the shattered remnants of
      Château-Vieux are seeking covert. Regiment du Roi, not
      effervescent now, alas no, but _having_ effervesced, will offer
      to ground its arms; will “march in a quarter of an hour.” Nay
      these poor effervesced require “escort” to march with, and get
      it; though they are thousands strong, and have thirty
      ball-cartridges a man! The Sun is not yet down, when Peace, which
      might have come bloodless, has come bloody: the mutinous
      Regiments are on march, doleful, on their three Routes; and from
      Nanci rises wail of women and men, the voice of weeping and
      desolation; the City weeping for its slain who awaken not. These
      streets are empty but for victorious patrols.

      Thus has Fortune, favouring the brave, dragged Bouillé, as
      himself says, out of such a frightful peril, “by the hair of the
      head.” An intrepid adamantine man this Bouillé:—had _he_ stood in
      old Broglie’s place, in those Bastille days, it might have been
      all different! He has extinguished mutiny, and immeasurable civil
      war. Not for nothing, as we see; yet at a rate which he and
      Constitutional Patriotism considers cheap. Nay, as for Bouillé,
      he, urged by subsequent contradiction which arose, declares
      coldly, it was rather against his own private mind, and more by
      public military rule of duty, that he did extinguish
      it,[321]—immeasurable civil war being now the only chance. Urged,
      we say, by subsequent contradiction! Civil war, indeed, is Chaos;
      and in all vital Chaos, there is new Order shaping itself free:
      but what a faith this, that of all new Orders out of Chaos and
      Possibility of Man and his Universe, Louis Sixteenth and
      Two-Chamber Monarchy were precisely the one that would shape
      itself! It is like undertaking to throw deuce-ace, say only five
      hundred successive times, and any other throw to be fatal—for
      Bouillé. Rather thank Fortune, and Heaven, always, thou intrepid
      Bouillé; and let contradiction of its way! Civil war,
      conflagrating universally over France at this moment, might have
      led to one thing or to another thing: meanwhile, to _quench_
      conflagration, wheresoever one finds it, wheresoever one can;
      this, in all times, is the rule for man and General Officer.

      But at Paris, so agitated and divided, fancy how it went, when
      the continually vibrating Orderlies vibrated _thither_ at hand
      gallop, with such questionable news! High is the gratulation; and
      also deep the indignation. An august Assembly, by overwhelming
      majorities, passionately thanks Bouillé; a King’s autograph, the
      voices of all Loyal, all Constitutional men run to the same
      tenor. A solemn National funeral-service, for the Law-defenders
      slain at Nanci; is said and sung in the Champ de Mars; Bailly,
      Lafayette and National Guards, all except the few that protested,
      assist. With pomp and circumstance, with episcopal Calicoes in
      tricolor girdles, Altar of Fatherland smoking with cassolettes,
      or incense-kettles; the vast Champ-de-Mars wholly hung round with
      black mortcloth,—which mortcloth and expenditure Marat thinks had
      better have been laid out in bread, in these dear days, and given
      to the hungry living Patriot.[322] On the other hand, living
      Patriotism, and Saint-Antoine, which we have seen noisily closing
      its shops and such like, assembles now “to the number of forty
      thousand;” and, with loud cries, under the very windows of the
      thanking National Assembly, demands revenge for murdered
      Brothers, judgment on Bouillé, and instant dismissal of
      War-Minister Latour du Pin.

      At sound and sight of which things, if not War-Minister Latour,
      yet “Adored Minister” Necker, sees good on the 3d of September
      1790, to withdraw softly almost privily,—with an eye to the
      “recovery of his health.” Home to native Switzerland; not as he
      last came; lucky to reach it alive! Fifteen months ago, we saw
      him coming, with escort of horse, with sound of clarion and
      trumpet: and now at Arcis-sur-Aube, while he departs unescorted
      soundless, the Populace and Municipals stop him as a fugitive,
      are not unlike massacring him as a traitor; the National
      Assembly, consulted on the matter, gives him free egress as a
      nullity. Such an unstable “drift-mould of Accident” is the
      substance of this lower world, for them that dwell in houses of
      clay; so, especially in hot regions and times, do the proudest
      palaces we build of it take wings, and become Sahara
      sand-palaces, spinning many pillared in the whirlwind, and bury
      us under their sand!—

      In spite of the forty thousand, the National Assembly persists in
      its thanks; and Royalist Latour du Pin continues Minister. The
      forty thousand assemble next day, as loud as ever; roll towards
      Latour’s Hôtel; find cannon on the porch-steps with flambeau lit;
      and have to retire elsewhither, and digest their spleen, or
      re-absorb it into the blood.

      Over in Lorraine, meanwhile, they of the distributed fusils,
      ringleaders of Mestre-de-Camp, of Roi, have got marked out for
      judgment;—yet shall never get judged. Briefer is the doom of
      Château-Vieux. Château-Vieux is, by Swiss law, given up for
      instant trial in Court-Martial of its own officers. Which
      Court-Martial, with all brevity (in not many hours), has hanged
      some Twenty-three, on conspicuous gibbets; marched some
      Three-score in chains to the Galleys; and so, to appearance,
      finished the matter off. Hanged men do cease for ever from this
      Earth; but out of chains and the Galleys there may be
      resuscitation in triumph. Resuscitation for the chained Hero; and
      even for the chained Scoundrel, or Semi-scoundrel! Scottish John
      Knox, such World-Hero, as we know, sat once nevertheless pulling
      grim-taciturn at the oar of French Galley, “in the _Water of
      Lore;_” and even flung their Virgin-Mary over, instead of kissing
      her,—as “a _pented bredd_,” or timber Virgin, who could naturally
      swim.[323] So, ye of Château-Vieux, tug patiently, not without
      hope!

      But indeed at Nanci generally, Aristocracy rides triumphant,
      rough. Bouillé is gone again, the second day; an Aristocrat
      Municipality, with free course, is as cruel as it had before been
      cowardly. The Daughter Society, as the mother of the whole
      mischief, lies ignominiously suppressed; the Prisons can hold no
      more; bereaved down-beaten Patriotism murmurs, not loud but deep.
      Here and in the neighbouring Towns, “flattened balls” picked from
      the streets of Nanci are worn at buttonholes: balls flattened in
      carrying death to Patriotism; men wear them there, in perpetual
      memento of revenge. Mutineer Deserters roam the woods; have to
      demand charity at the musket’s end. All is dissolution, mutual
      rancour, gloom and despair:—till National-Assembly Commissioners
      arrive, with a steady gentle flame of Constitutionalism in their
      hearts; who gently lift up the down-trodden, gently pull down the
      too uplifted; reinstate the Daughter Society, recall the Mutineer
      Deserter; gradually levelling, strive in all wise ways to smooth
      and soothe. With such gradual mild levelling on the one side; as
      with solemn funeral-service, Cassolettes, Courts-Martial,
      National thanks,—all that Officiality can do is done. The
      buttonhole will drop its flat ball; the black ashes, so far as
      may be, get green again.

      This is the “Affair of Nanci;” by some called the “Massacre of
      Nanci;”—properly speaking, the unsightly _wrong_-side of that
      thrice glorious Feast of Pikes, the right-side of which formed a
      spectacle for the very gods. Right-side and wrong lie always so
      near: the one was in July, in August the other! Theatres, the
      theatres over in London, are bright with their pasteboard
      simulacrum of that “Federation of the French People,” brought out
      as Drama: this of Nanci, we may say, though not played in any
      pasteboard Theatre, did for many months enact itself, and even
      walk spectrally—in all French heads. For the news of it fly
      pealing through all France; awakening, in town and village, in
      clubroom, messroom, to the utmost borders, some mimic reflex or
      imaginative repetition of the business; always with the angry
      questionable assertion: It was right; It was wrong. Whereby come
      controversies, duels, embitterment, vain jargon; the hastening
      forward, the augmenting and intensifying of whatever new
      explosions lie in store for us.

      Meanwhile, at this cost or at that, the mutiny, as we say, is
      stilled. The French Army has neither burst up in universal
      simultaneous delirium; nor been at once disbanded, put an end to,
      and made new again. It must die in the chronic manner, through
      years, by inches; with partial revolts, as of Brest Sailors or
      the like, which dare not spread; with men unhappy, insubordinate;
      officers unhappier, in Royalist moustachioes, taking horse,
      singly or in bodies, across the Rhine:[324] sick dissatisfaction,
      sick disgust on both sides; the Army moribund, fit for no
      duty:—till it do, in that unexpected manner, Phoenix-like, with
      long throes, get both dead and newborn; then start forth strong,
      nay stronger and even strongest.

      Thus much was the brave Bouillé hitherto fated to do. Wherewith
      let him again fade into dimness; and at Metz or the rural
      Cantonments, assiduously drilling, mysteriously diplomatising, in
      scheme within scheme, hover as formerly a faint shadow, the hope
      of Royalty.


      BOOK 2.III.
      THE TUILERIES


      Chapter 2.3.I.
      Epimenides.

      How true that there is nothing dead in this Universe; that what
      we call dead is only changed, its forces working in inverse
      order! “The leaf that lies rotting in moist winds,” says one,
      “has still force; else how could it _rot?_” Our whole Universe is
      but an infinite Complex of Forces; thousandfold, from Gravitation
      up to Thought and Will; man’s Freedom environed with Necessity of
      Nature: in all which nothing at any moment slumbers, but all is
      for ever awake and busy. The thing that lies isolated inactive
      thou shalt nowhere discover; seek every where from the granite
      mountain, slow-mouldering since Creation, to the passing
      cloud-vapour, to the living man; to the action, to the spoken
      word of man. The word that is spoken, as we know,
      flies-irrevocable: not less, but more, the action that is done.
      “The gods themselves,” sings Pindar, “cannot annihilate the
      action that is done.” No: this, once done, is done always; cast
      forth into endless Time; and, long conspicuous or soon hidden,
      must verily work and grow for ever there, an indestructible new
      element in the Infinite of Things. Or, indeed, what _is_ this
      Infinite of Things itself, which men name Universe, but an
      action, a sum-total of Actions and Activities? The living
      ready-made sum-total of these three,—which Calculation cannot
      add, cannot bring on its tablets; yet the sum, we say, is written
      visible: All that has been done, All that is doing, All that will
      be done! Understand it well, the Thing thou beholdest, that Thing
      is an Action, the product and expression of exerted Force: the
      All of Things is an infinite conjugation of the verb _To do._
      Shoreless Fountain-Ocean of Force, of power to _do;_ wherein
      Force rolls and circles, billowing, many-streamed, harmonious;
      wide as Immensity, deep as Eternity; beautiful and terrible, not
      to be comprehended: this is what man names Existence and
      Universe; this thousand-tinted Flame-image, at once veil and
      revelation, reflex such as he, in his poor brain and heart, can
      paint, of One Unnameable dwelling in inaccessible light! From
      beyond the Star-galaxies, from before the Beginning of Days, it
      billows and rolls,—round _thee_, nay thyself art of it, in this
      point of Space where thou now standest, in this moment which thy
      clock measures.

      Or apart from all Transcendentalism, is it not a plain truth of
      sense, which the duller mind can even consider as a truism, that
      human things wholly are in continual movement, and action and
      reaction; working continually forward, phasis after phasis, by
      unalterable laws, towards prescribed issues? How often must we
      say, and yet not rightly lay to heart: The seed that is sown, it
      will spring! Given the summer’s blossoming, then there is also
      given the autumnal withering: so is it ordered not with
      seedfields only, but with transactions, arrangements,
      philosophies, societies, French Revolutions, whatsoever man works
      with in this lower world. The Beginning holds in it the End, and
      all that leads thereto; as the acorn does the oak and its
      fortunes. Solemn enough, did we think of it,—which unhappily and
      also happily we do not very much! Thou there canst begin; the
      Beginning is for thee, and there: but where, and of what sort,
      and for whom will the End be? All grows, and seeks and endures
      its destinies: consider likewise how much grows, as the trees do,
      whether _we_ think of it or not. So that when your Epimenides,
      your somnolent Peter Klaus, since named Rip van Winkle, awakens
      again, he finds it a changed world. In that seven-years’ sleep of
      his, so much has changed! All that is without us will change
      while we think not of it; much even that is within us. The truth
      that was yesterday a restless Problem, has today grown a Belief
      burning to be uttered: on the morrow, contradiction has
      exasperated it into mad Fanaticism; obstruction has dulled it
      into sick Inertness; it is sinking towards silence, of
      satisfaction or of resignation. Today is not Yesterday, for man
      or for thing. Yesterday there was the oath of Love; today has
      come the curse of Hate. Not willingly: ah, no; but it could not
      help coming. The golden radiance of youth, would it willingly
      have tarnished itself into the dimness of old age?—Fearful: how
      we stand enveloped, deep-sunk, in that Mystery of TIME; and are
      Sons of Time; fashioned and woven out of Time; and on us, and on
      all that we have, or see, or do, is written: Rest not, Continue
      not, Forward to thy doom!

      But in seasons of Revolution, which indeed distinguish themselves
      from common seasons by their _velocity_ mainly, your miraculous
      Seven-sleeper might, with miracle enough, wake _sooner:_ not by
      the century, or seven years, need he sleep; often not by the
      seven months. Fancy, for example, some new Peter Klaus, sated
      with the jubilee of that Federation day, had lain down, say
      directly after the Blessing of Talleyrand; and, reckoning it all
      safe _now_, had fallen composedly asleep under the timber-work of
      the Fatherland’s Altar; to sleep there, not twenty-one years, but
      as it were year and day. The cannonading of Nanci, so far off,
      does not disturb him; nor does the black mortcloth, close at
      hand, nor the requiems chanted, and minute guns, incense-pans and
      concourse right over his head: none of these; but Peter sleeps
      through them all. Through one circling year, as we say; from July
      14th of 1790, till July the 17th of 1791: but on that latter day,
      no Klaus, nor most leaden Epimenides, only the Dead could
      continue sleeping; and so our miraculous Peter Klaus awakens.
      With what eyes, O Peter! Earth and sky have still their joyous
      July look, and the Champ-de-Mars is multitudinous with men: but
      the jubilee-huzzahing has become Bedlam-shrieking, of terror and
      revenge; not blessing of Talleyrand, or any blessing, but
      cursing, imprecation and shrill wail; our cannon-salvoes are
      turned to sharp shot; for swinging of incense-pans and
      Eighty-three Departmental Banners, we have waving of the one
      sanguinous _Drapeau-Rouge_.—Thou foolish Klaus! The one lay in
      the other, the one _was_ the other _minus_ Time; even as
      Hannibal’s rock-rending vinegar lay in the sweet new wine. That
      sweet Federation was of last year; this sour Divulsion is the
      self-same substance, only older by the appointed days.

      No miraculous Klaus or Epimenides sleeps in these times: and yet,
      may not many a man, if of due opacity and levity, act the same
      miracle in a natural way; we mean, with his eyes open? Eyes has
      he, but he sees not, except what is under his nose. With a
      sparkling briskness of glance, as if he not only saw but saw
      through, such a one goes whisking, assiduous, in his circle of
      officialities; not dreaming but that _it_ is the whole world: as,
      indeed, where your vision terminates, does not inanity begin
      _there_, and the world’s end clearly declares itself—to you?
      Whereby our brisk sparkling assiduous official person (call him,
      for instance, Lafayette), suddenly startled, after year and day,
      by huge grape-shot tumult, stares not less astonished at it than
      Peter Klaus would have done. Such natural-miracle Lafayette can
      perform; and indeed not he only but most other officials,
      non-officials, and generally the whole French People can perform
      it; and do bounce up, ever and anon, like amazed Seven-sleepers
      awakening; awakening amazed at the noise they themselves _make_.
      So strangely is Freedom, as we say, environed in Necessity; such
      a singular Somnambulism, of Conscious and Unconscious, of
      Voluntary and Involuntary, is this life of man. If any where in
      the world there was astonishment that the Federation Oath went
      into grape-shot, surely of all persons the French, first swearers
      and then shooters, felt astonished the most.

      Alas, offences must come. The sublime Feast of Pikes, with its
      effulgence of brotherly love, unknown since the Age of Gold, has
      changed nothing. That prurient heat in Twenty-five millions of
      hearts is not cooled thereby; but is still hot, nay hotter. Lift
      off the pressure of command from so many millions; all pressure
      or binding rule, except such melodramatic Federation Oath as they
      have bound _themselves_ with! For _Thou shalt_ was from of old
      the condition of man’s being, and his weal and blessedness was in
      obeying that. Wo for him when, were it on hest of the clearest
      necessity, rebellion, disloyal isolation, and mere _I will_,
      becomes his rule! But the Gospel of Jean-Jacques has come, and
      the first Sacrament of it has been celebrated: all things, as we
      say, are got into hot and hotter prurience; and must go on
      pruriently fermenting, in continual change noted or unnoted.

      “Worn out with disgusts,” Captain after Captain, in Royalist
      moustachioes, mounts his warhorse, or his Rozinante war-garron,
      and rides minatory across the Rhine; till all have ridden.
      Neither does civic Emigration cease: Seigneur after Seigneur
      must, in like manner, ride or roll; impelled to it, and even
      compelled. For the very Peasants despise him in that he dare not
      join his order and fight.[325] Can he bear to have a Distaff, a
      _Quenouille_ sent to him; say in copper-plate shadow, by post; or
      fixed up in wooden reality over his gate-lintel: as if he were no
      Hercules but an Omphale? Such scutcheon they forward to him
      diligently from behind the Rhine; till he too bestir himself and
      march, and in sour humour, another Lord of Land is gone, _not_
      taking the Land with him. Nay, what of Captains and emigrating
      Seigneurs? There is not an angry word on any of those Twenty-five
      million French tongues, and indeed not an angry thought in their
      hearts, but is some fraction of the great Battle. Add many
      successions of angry words together, you have the manual brawl;
      add brawls together, with the festering sorrows they leave, and
      they rise to riots and revolts. One reverend thing after another
      ceases to meet reverence: in visible material combustion, château
      after château mounts up; in spiritual invisible combustion, one
      authority after another. With noise and glare, or noisily and
      unnoted, a whole Old System of things is vanishing piecemeal: on
      the morrow thou shalt look and it is not.


      Chapter 2.3.II.
      The Wakeful.

      Sleep who will, cradled in hope and short vision, like Lafayette,
      “who always in the danger done sees the last danger that will
      threaten him,”—Time is not sleeping, nor Time’s seedfield.

      That sacred Herald’s-College of a _new_ Dynasty; we mean the
      Sixty and odd Billstickers with their leaden badges, are not
      sleeping. Daily they, with pastepot and cross-staff, new clothe
      the walls of Paris in colours of the rainbow: authoritative
      heraldic, as we say, or indeed almost magical thaumaturgic; for
      no Placard-Journal that they paste but will convince some soul or
      souls of man. The Hawkers bawl; and the Balladsingers: great
      Journalism blows and blusters, through all its throats, forth
      from Paris towards all corners of France, like an Aeolus’ Cave;
      keeping alive all manner of fires.

      Throats or Journals there are, as men count,[326] to the number
      of some hundred and thirty-three. Of various calibre; from your
      Chéniers, Gorsases, Camilles, down to your Marat, down now to
      your incipient Hébert of the _Père Duchesne;_ these blow, with
      fierce weight of argument or quick light banter, for the Rights
      of man: Durosoys, Royous, Peltiers, Sulleaus, equally with mixed
      tactics, inclusive, singular to say, of much profane Parody,[327]
      are blowing for Altar and Throne. As for Marat the
      People’s-Friend, his voice is as that of the bullfrog, or bittern
      by the solitary pools; he, unseen of men, croaks harsh thunder,
      and that alone continually,—of indignation, suspicion, incurable
      sorrow. The People are sinking towards ruin, near starvation
      itself: “My dear friends,” cries he, “your indigence is not the
      fruit of vices nor of idleness, you have a right to life, as good
      as Louis XVI., or the happiest of the century. What man can say
      he has a right to dine, when you have no bread?”[328] The People
      sinking on the one hand: on the other hand, nothing but wretched
      Sieur Motiers, treasonous Riquetti Mirabeaus; traitors, or else
      shadows, and simulacra of Quacks, to be seen in high places, look
      where you will! Men that go mincing, grimacing, with plausible
      speech and brushed raiment; hollow within: Quacks Political;
      Quacks scientific, Academical; all with a fellow-feeling for each
      other, and kind of Quack public-spirit! Not great Lavoisier
      himself, or any of the Forty can escape this rough tongue; which
      wants not fanatic sincerity, nor, strangest of all, a certain
      rough caustic sense. And then the “three thousand gaming-houses”
      that are in Paris; cesspools for the scoundrelism of the world;
      sinks of iniquity and debauchery,—whereas without good morals
      Liberty is impossible! There, in these Dens of Satan, which one
      knows, and perseveringly denounces, do Sieur Motier’s mouchards
      consort and colleague; battening vampyre-like on a People
      next-door to starvation. “_O Peuple!_” cries he oftimes, with
      heart-rending accent. Treason, delusion, vampyrism, scoundrelism,
      from Dan to Beersheba! The soul of Marat is sick with the sight:
      but what remedy? To erect “Eight Hundred gibbets,” in convenient
      rows, and proceed to hoisting; “Riquetti on the first of them!”
      Such is the brief recipe of Marat, Friend of the People.

      So blow and bluster the Hundred and thirty-three: nor, as would
      seem, are these sufficient; for there are benighted nooks in
      France, to which Newspapers do not reach; and every where is
      “such an appetite for news as was never seen in any country.” Let
      an expeditious Dampmartin, on furlough, set out to return home
      from Paris,[329] he cannot get along for “peasants stopping him
      on the highway; overwhelming him with questions:” the _Maître de
      Poste_ will not send out the horses till you have well nigh
      quarrelled with him, but asks always, What news? At Autun, “in
      spite of the rigorous frost” for it is now January, 1791, nothing
      will serve but you must gather your wayworn limbs, and thoughts,
      and “speak to the multitudes from a window opening into the
      market-place.” It is the shortest method: _This_, good Christian
      people, is verily what an August Assembly seemed to me to be
      doing; this and no other is the news;

     “Now my weary lips I close;
     Leave me, leave me to repose.”


      The good Dampmartin!—But, on the whole, are not Nations
      astonishingly true to their National character; which indeed runs
      in the blood? Nineteen hundred years ago, Julius Cæsar, with his
      quick sure eye, took note how the Gauls waylaid men. “It is a
      habit of theirs,” says he, “to stop travellers, were it even by
      constraint, and inquire whatsoever each of them may have heard or
      known about any sort of matter: in their towns, the common people
      beset the passing trader; demanding to hear from what regions he
      came, what things he got acquainted with there. Excited by which
      rumours and hearsays they will decide about the weightiest
      matters; and necessarily repent next moment that they did it, on
      such guidance of uncertain reports, and many a traveller
      answering with mere fictions to please them, and get off.”[330]
      Nineteen hundred years; and good Dampmartin, wayworn, in winter
      frost, probably with scant light of stars and fish-oil, still
      perorates from the Inn-window! This People is no longer called
      Gaulish; and it has _wholly_ become _braccatus_, has got
      breeches, and suffered change enough: certain fierce German
      _Franken_ came storming over; and, so to speak, vaulted on the
      back of it; and always after, in their grim tenacious way, have
      ridden it bridled; for German is, by his very name, _Guerre_-man,
      or man that _wars_ and _gars_. And so the People, as we say, is
      now called French or Frankish: nevertheless, does not the old
      Gaulish and Gaelic Celthood, with its vehemence, effervescent
      promptitude, and what good and ill it had, still vindicate itself
      little adulterated?—

      For the rest, that in such prurient confusion, Clubbism thrives
      and spreads, need not be said. Already the Mother of Patriotism,
      sitting in the Jacobins, shines supreme over all; and has paled
      the poor lunar light of that Monarchic Club near to final
      extinction. She, we say, shines supreme, girt with sun-light, not
      yet with infernal lightning; reverenced, not without fear, by
      Municipal Authorities; counting her Barnaves, Lameths, Pétions,
      of a National Assembly; most gladly of all, her Robespierre.
      Cordeliers, again, your Hébert, Vincent, Bibliopolist Momoro,
      groan audibly that a tyrannous Mayor and Sieur Motier harrow them
      with the sharp _tribula_ of Law, intent apparently to suppress
      them by tribulation. How the Jacobin Mother-Society, as hinted
      formerly, sheds forth Cordeliers on this hand, and then Feuillans
      on that; the Cordeliers on this hand, and then Feuillans on that;
      the Cordeliers “an elixir or double-distillation of Jacobin
      Patriotism;” the other a wide-spread weak dilution thereof; how
      she will re-absorb the former into her Mother-bosom, and
      stormfully dissipate the latter into Nonentity: how she breeds
      and brings forth Three Hundred Daughter-Societies; her rearing of
      them, her correspondence, her endeavourings and continual
      travail: how, under an old figure, Jacobinism shoots forth
      organic filaments to the utmost corners of confused dissolved
      France; organising it anew:—this properly is the grand fact of
      the Time.

      To passionate Constitutionalism, still more to Royalism, which
      see all their own Clubs fail and die, Clubbism will naturally
      grow to seem the root of all evil. Nevertheless Clubbism is not
      death, but rather new organisation, and life out of death:
      destructive, indeed, of the remnants of the Old; but to the New
      important, indispensable. That man can co-operate and hold
      communion with man, herein lies his miraculous strength. In hut
      or hamlet, Patriotism mourns not now like voice in the desert: it
      can walk to the nearest Town; and there, in the Daughter-Society,
      make its ejaculation into an articulate oration, into an action,
      guided forward by the Mother of Patriotism herself. All Clubs of
      Constitutionalists, and such like, fail, one after another, as
      shallow fountains: Jacobinism alone has gone down to the deep
      subterranean lake of waters; and may, unless _filled in_, flow
      there, copious, continual, like an Artesian well. Till the Great
      Deep have drained itself up: and all be flooded and submerged,
      and Noah’s Deluge out-deluged!

      On the other hand, Claude Fauchet, preparing mankind for a Golden
      Age now apparently just at hand, has opened his _Cercle Social_,
      with clerks, corresponding boards, and so forth; in the precincts
      of the Palais Royal. It is _Te-Deum_ Fauchet; the same who
      preached on Franklin’s Death, in that huge Medicean rotunda of
      the _Halle aux bleds_. He here, this winter, by Printing-press
      and melodious Colloquy, spreads bruit of himself to the utmost
      City-barriers. “Ten thousand persons” of respectability attend
      there; and listen to this “_Procureur-Général de la Vérité_,
      Attorney-General of Truth,” so has he dubbed himself; to his sage
      Condorcet, or other eloquent coadjutor. Eloquent
      Attorney-General! He blows out from him, better or worse, what
      crude or ripe thing he holds: not without result to himself; for
      it leads to a Bishoprick, though only a Constitutional one.
      Fauchet approves himself a glib-tongued, strong-lunged,
      whole-hearted human individual: much flowing matter there is, and
      really of the better sort, about Right, Nature, Benevolence,
      Progress; which flowing matter, whether “it is pantheistic,” or
      is pot-theistic, only the greener mind, in these days, need read.
      Busy Brissot was long ago of purpose to establish precisely some
      such regenerative _Social Circle:_ nay he had tried it, in
      “Newman-street Oxford-street,” of the Fog Babylon; and failed,—as
      some say, surreptitiously pocketing the cash. Fauchet, not
      Brissot, was fated to be the happy man; whereat, however,
      generous Brissot will with sincere heart sing a timber-toned
      _Nunc Domine_.[331] But “ten thousand persons of respectability:”
      what a bulk have many things in proportion to their magnitude!
      This _Cercle Social_, for which Brissot chants in sincere
      timber-tones such _Nunc Domine_, what is it? Unfortunately wind
      and shadow. The main reality one finds in it now, is perhaps
      this: that an “Attorney-General of Truth” did once take shape of
      a body, as Son of Adam, on our Earth, though but for months or
      moments; and ten thousand persons of respectability attended, ere
      yet Chaos and Nox had reabsorbed him.

      Hundred and thirty-three Paris Journals; regenerative Social
      Circle; oratory, in Mother and Daughter Societies, from the
      balconies of Inns, by chimney-nook, at dinner-table,—polemical,
      ending many times in duel! Add ever, like a constant growling
      accompaniment of bass Discord: scarcity of work, scarcity of
      food. The winter is hard and cold; ragged Bakers’-queues, like a
      black tattered flag-of-distress, wave out ever and anon. It is
      the third of our Hunger-years this new year of a glorious
      Revolution. The rich man when invited to dinner, in such
      distress-seasons, feels bound in politeness to carry his own
      bread in his pocket: how the poor dine? And your glorious
      Revolution has done it, cries one. And our glorious Revolution is
      subtilety, by black traitors worthy of the Lamp-iron, _perverted_
      to do it, cries another! Who will paint the huge whirlpool
      wherein France, all shivered into wild incoherence, whirls? The
      jarring that went on under every French roof, in every French
      heart; the diseased things that were spoken, done, the sum-total
      whereof is the French Revolution, tongue of man cannot tell. Nor
      the laws of action that work unseen in the depths of that huge
      blind Incoherence! With amazement, not with measurement, men look
      on the Immeasurable; not knowing its laws; _seeing_, with all
      different degrees of knowledge, what new phases, and results of
      event, its laws bring forth. France is as a monstrous Galvanic
      Mass, wherein all sorts of far stranger than chemical galvanic or
      electric forces and substances are at work; electrifying one
      another, positive and negative; filling with electricity your
      Leyden-jars,—Twenty-five millions in number! As the jars get
      full, there will, from time to time, be, on slight hint, an
      explosion.


      Chapter 2.3.III.
      Sword in Hand.

      On such wonderful basis, however, has Law, Royalty, Authority,
      and whatever yet exists of visible Order, to maintain itself,
      while it can. Here, as in that Commixture of the Four Elements
      did the Anarch Old, has an august Assembly spread its pavilion;
      curtained by the dark infinite of discords; founded on the
      wavering bottomless of the Abyss; and keeps continual hubbub.
      Time is around it, and Eternity, and the Inane; and it does what
      it can, what is given it to do.

      Glancing reluctantly in, once more, we discern little that is
      edifying: a Constitutional Theory of Defective Verbs struggling
      forward, with perseverance, amid endless interruptions: Mirabeau,
      from his tribune, with the weight of his name and genius, awing
      down much Jacobin violence; which in return vents itself the
      louder over in its Jacobins Hall, and even reads him sharp
      lectures there.[332] This man’s path is mysterious, questionable;
      difficult, and he walks without companion in it. Pure Patriotism
      does not now count him among her chosen; pure Royalism abhors
      him: yet his weight with the world is overwhelming. Let him
      travel on, companionless, unwavering, whither he is bound,—while
      it is yet day with him, and the night has not come.

      But the chosen band of pure Patriot brothers is small; counting
      only some Thirty, seated now on the extreme tip of the Left,
      separate from the world. A virtuous Pétion; an incorruptible
      Robespierre, most consistent, incorruptible of thin acrid men;
      Triumvirs Barnave, Duport, Lameth, great in speech, thought,
      action, each according to his kind; a lean old Goupil de Prefeln:
      on these and what will follow them has pure Patriotism to depend.

      There too, conspicuous among the Thirty, if seldom audible,
      Philippe d’Orléans may be seen sitting: in dim fuliginous
      bewilderment; having, one might say, _arrived_ at Chaos! Gleams
      there are, at once of a Lieutenancy and Regency; debates in the
      Assembly itself, of succession to the Throne “in case the present
      Branch should fail;” and Philippe, they say, walked anxiously, in
      silence, through the corridors, till such high argument were
      done: but it came all to nothing; Mirabeau, glaring into the man,
      and through him, had to ejaculate in strong untranslatable
      language: _Ce j—f—ne vaut pas la peine qu’on se donne pour lui_.
      It came all to nothing; and in the meanwhile Philippe’s money,
      they say, is gone! Could he refuse a little cash to the gifted
      Patriot, in want only of that; he himself in want of all _but_
      that? Not a pamphlet can be printed without cash; or indeed
      written, without food purchasable by cash. Without cash your
      hopefullest Projector cannot stir from the spot: individual
      patriotic or other Projects require cash: how much more do
      wide-spread Intrigues, which live and exist by cash; lying
      widespread, with dragon-appetite for cash; fit to swallow
      Princedoms! And so Prince Philippe, amid his Sillerys, Lacloses,
      and confused Sons of Night, has rolled along: the centre of the
      strangest cloudy coil; out of which has visibly come, as we often
      say, an Epic Preternatural Machinery of SUSPICION; and _within_
      which there has dwelt and worked,—what specialties of treason,
      stratagem, aimed or aimless endeavour towards mischief, no party
      living (if it be not the Presiding Genius of it, Prince of the
      Power of the Air) has now any chance to know. Camille’s
      conjecture is the likeliest: that poor Philippe did mount up, a
      little way, in treasonable speculation, as he mounted formerly in
      one of the earliest Balloons; but, frightened at the new position
      he was getting into, had soon turned the cock again, and come
      down. More fool than he rose! To create Preternatural Suspicion,
      this was his function in the Revolutionary Epos. But now if he
      have lost his cornucopia of ready-money, what else had he to
      lose? In thick darkness, inward and outward, he must welter and
      flounder on, in that piteous death-element, the hapless man.
      Once, or even twice, we shall still behold him emerged;
      struggling out of the thick death-element: in vain. For one
      moment, it is the last moment, he starts aloft, or is flung
      aloft, even into clearness and a kind of memorability,—to sink
      then for evermore!

      The _Côté Droit_ persists no less; nay with more animation than
      ever, though hope has now well nigh fled. Tough Abbé Maury, when
      the obscure country Royalist grasps his hand with transport of
      thanks, answers, rolling his indomitable brazen head: ‘_Hélas,
      Monsieur_, all that I do here is as good as simply _nothing_.’
      Gallant Faussigny, visible this one time in History, advances
      frantic, into the middle of the Hall, exclaiming: ‘There is but
      one way of dealing with it, and that is to fall sword in hand on
      those gentry there, _sabre à la main sur ces gaillards là_,’[333]
      franticly indicating our chosen Thirty on the extreme tip of the
      Left! Whereupon is clangour and clamour, debate,
      repentance,—evaporation. Things ripen towards downright
      incompatibility, and what is called “scission:” that fierce
      theoretic onslaught of Faussigny’s was in August, 1790; next
      August will not have come, till a famed Two Hundred and
      Ninety-two, the chosen of Royalism, make solemn final “scission”
      from an Assembly given up to faction; and depart, shaking the
      dust off their feet.

      Connected with this matter of sword in hand, there is yet another
      thing to be noted. Of duels we have sometimes spoken: how, in all
      parts of France, innumerable duels were fought; and argumentative
      men and messmates, flinging down the wine-cup and weapons of
      reason and repartee, met in the measured field; to part bleeding;
      or perhaps _not_ to part, but to fall mutually skewered through
      with iron, their wrath and life alike ending,—and die as fools
      die. Long has this lasted, and still lasts. But now it would seem
      as if in an august Assembly itself, traitorous Royalism, in its
      despair, had taken to a new course: that of cutting off
      Patriotism by systematic duel! Bully-swordsmen, “_Spadassins_” of
      that party, go swaggering; or indeed they can be had for a trifle
      of money. “Twelve _Spadassins_” were _seen_, by the yellow eye of
      Journalism, “arriving recently out of Switzerland;” also “a
      considerable number of Assassins, _nombre considérable
      d’assassins_, exercising in fencing-schools and at
      pistol-targets.” Any Patriot Deputy of mark can be called out;
      let him escape one time, or ten times, a time there necessarily
      is when he must fall, and France mourn. How many cartels has
      Mirabeau had; especially while he was the People’s champion!
      Cartels by the hundred: which he, since the Constitution must be
      made first, and his time is precious, answers now always with a
      kind of stereotype formula: ‘Monsieur, you are put upon my List;
      but I warn you that it is long, and I grant no preferences.’

      Then, in Autumn, had we not the Duel of Cazalès and Barnave; the
      two chief masters of tongue-shot meeting now to exchange
      pistol-shot? For Cazalès, chief of the Royalists, whom we call
      “Blacks or _Noirs_,” said, in a moment of passion, ‘the Patriots
      were sheer Brigands,’ nay in so speaking, he darted or seemed to
      dart, a fire-glance specially at Barnave; who thereupon could not
      but reply by fire-glances,—by adjournment to the
      Bois-de-Boulogne. Barnave’s second shot took effect: on Cazalès’s
      _hat_. The “front nook” of a triangular Felt, such as mortals
      then wore, deadened the ball; and saved that fine brow from more
      than temporary injury. But how easily might the lot have fallen
      the other way, and Barnave’s hat not been so good! Patriotism
      raises its loud denunciation of Duelling in general; petitions an
      august Assembly to stop such Feudal barbarism by law. Barbarism
      and solecism: for will it convince or convict any man to blow
      half an ounce of lead through the head of him? Surely
      not.—Barnave was received at the Jacobins with embraces, yet with
      rebukes.

      Mindful of which, and also that his repetition in America was
      that of headlong foolhardiness rather, and want of brain not of
      heart, Charles Lameth does, on the eleventh day of November, with
      little emotion, decline attending some hot young Gentleman from
      Artois, come expressly to challenge him: nay indeed he first
      coldly engages to attend; then coldly permits two Friends to
      attend instead of him, and shame the young Gentleman out of it,
      which they successfully do. A cold procedure; satisfactory to the
      two Friends, to Lameth and the hot young Gentleman; whereby, one
      might have fancied, the whole matter was cooled down.

      Not so, however: Lameth, proceeding to his senatorial duties, in
      the decline of the day, is met in those Assembly corridors by
      nothing but Royalist _brocards;_ sniffs, huffs, and open insults.
      Human patience has its limits: ‘Monsieur,’ said Lameth, breaking
      silence to one Lautrec, a man with hunchback, or natural
      deformity, but sharp of tongue, and a _Black_ of the deepest
      tint, ‘Monsieur, if you were a man to be fought with!’—‘I am
      one,’ cries the young Duke de Castries. Fast as fire-flash Lameth
      replies, ‘_Tout à l’heure_, On the instant, then!’ And so, as the
      shades of dusk thicken in that Bois-de-Boulogne, we behold two
      men with lion-look, with alert attitude, side foremost, right
      foot advanced; flourishing and thrusting, stoccado and passado,
      in tierce and quart; intent to skewer one another. See, with most
      skewering purpose, headlong Lameth, with his whole weight, makes
      a furious lunge; but deft Castries whisks aside: Lameth skewers
      only the air,—and slits deep and far, on Castries’ sword’s-point,
      his own extended left arm! Whereupon with bleeding, pallor,
      surgeon’s-lint, and formalities, the Duel is considered
      satisfactorily done.

      But will there be no end, then? Beloved Lameth lies deep-slit,
      not out of danger. Black traitorous Aristocrats kill the People’s
      defenders, cut up not with arguments, but with rapier-slits. And
      the Twelve _Spadassins_ out of Switzerland, and the considerable
      number of Assassins exercising at the pistol-target? So meditates
      and ejaculates hurt Patriotism, with ever-deepening ever-widening
      fervour, for the space of six and thirty hours.

      The thirty-six hours past, on Saturday the 13th, one beholds a
      new spectacle: The Rue de Varennes, and neighbouring Boulevard
      des Invalides, covered with a mixed flowing multitude: the
      Castries Hotel gone distracted, devil-ridden, belching from every
      window, “beds with clothes and curtains,” plate of silver and
      gold with filigree, mirrors, pictures, images, commodes,
      chiffoniers, and endless crockery and jingle: amid steady popular
      cheers, absolutely without theft; for there goes a cry, ‘He shall
      be hanged that steals a nail!’ It is a _Plebiscitum_, or informal
      iconoclastic Decree of the Common People, in the course of being
      executed!—The Municipality sit tremulous; deliberating whether
      they will hang out the _Drapeau Rouge_ and Martial Law: National
      Assembly, part in loud wail, part in hardly suppressed applause:
      Abbé Maury unable to decide whether the iconoclastic Plebs amount
      to forty thousand or to two hundred thousand.

      Deputations, swift messengers, for it is at a distance over the
      River, come and go. Lafayette and National Guardes, though
      without _Drapeau Rouge_, get under way; apparently in no hot
      haste. Nay, arrived on the scene, Lafayette salutes with doffed
      hat, before ordering to fix bayonets. What avails it? The
      Plebeian ‘Court of _Cassation_,’ as Camille might punningly name
      it, has done its work; steps forth, with unbuttoned vest, with
      pockets turned inside out: sack, and just ravage, not plunder!
      With inexhaustible patience, the Hero of two Worlds remonstrates;
      persuasively, with a kind of sweet constraint, though also with
      fixed bayonets, dissipates, hushes down: on the morrow it is once
      more all as usual.

      Considering which things, however, Duke Castries may justly
      “write to the President,” justly transport himself across the
      Marches; to raise a corps, or do what else is in him. Royalism
      totally abandons that Bobadilian method of contest, and the
      Twelve _Spadassins_ return to Switzerland,—or even to Dreamland
      through the Horn-gate, whichsoever their home is. Nay Editor
      Prudhomme is authorised to publish a curious thing: “We are
      authorised to publish,” says he, dull-blustering Publisher, that
      M. Boyer, champion of good Patriots, is at the head of Fifty
      _Spadassinicides_ or Bully-_killers_. His address is: Passage du
      Bois-de-Boulonge, Faubourg St. Denis.”[334] One of the strangest
      Institutes, this of Champion Boyer and the Bully-killers! Whose
      services, however, are not wanted; Royalism having abandoned the
      rapier-method as plainly impracticable.


      Chapter 2.3.IV.
      To fly or not to fly.

      The truth is Royalism sees itself verging towards sad
      extremities; nearer and nearer daily. From over the Rhine it
      comes asserted that the King in his Tuileries is not free: this
      the poor King may contradict, with the official mouth, but in his
      heart feels often to be undeniable. Civil Constitution of the
      Clergy; Decree of ejectment against Dissidents from it: not even
      to this latter, though almost his conscience rebels, can he say
      “Nay; but, after two months’ hesitating, signs this also. It was
      on January 21st,” of this 1790, that he signed it; to the sorrow
      of his poor/ heart yet, on _another_ Twenty-first of January!
      Whereby come Dissident ejected Priests; unconquerable Martyrs
      according to some, incurable chicaning Traitors according to
      others. And so there has arrived what we once foreshadowed: with
      Religion, or with the Cant and Echo of Religion, all France is
      rent asunder in a new rupture of continuity; complicating,
      embittering all the older;—to be cured only, by stern surgery, in
      La Vendée!

      Unhappy Royalty, unhappy Majesty, Hereditary (Representative),
      _Représentant Héréditaire_, or however they can name him; of whom
      much is expected, to whom little is given! Blue National Guards
      encircle that Tuileries; a Lafayette, thin constitutional Pedant;
      clear, thin, inflexible, as water, turned to thin ice; whom no
      Queen’s heart can love. National Assembly, its pavilion spread
      where we know, sits near by, keeping continual hubbub. From
      without nothing but Nanci Revolts, sack of Castries Hotels, riots
      and seditions; riots, North and South, at Aix, at Douai, at
      Béfort, Usez, Perpignan, at Nismes, and that incurable Avignon of
      the Pope’s: a continual crackling and sputtering of riots from
      the whole face of France;—testifying how electric it grows. Add
      only the hard winter, the famished _strikes_ of operatives; that
      continual running-bass of Scarcity, ground-tone and basis of all
      other Discords!

      The plan of Royalty, so far as it can be said to have any fixed
      plan, is still, as ever, that of flying towards the frontiers. In
      very truth, the only plan of the smallest promise for it! Fly to
      Bouillé; bristle yourself round with cannon, served by your
      “forty-thousand undebauched Germans:” summon the National
      Assembly to follow you, summon what of it is Royalist,
      Constitutional, gainable by money; dissolve the rest, by
      grapeshot if need be. Let Jacobinism and Revolt, with one wild
      wail, fly into Infinite Space; driven by grapeshot. Thunder over
      France with the cannon’s mouth; commanding, not entreating, that
      this riot cease. And then to rule afterwards with utmost possible
      Constitutionality; doing justice, loving mercy; _being_ Shepherd
      of this indigent People, not Shearer merely, and
      Shepherd’s-similitude! All this, if ye dare. If ye dare not, then
      in Heaven’s name go to sleep: other handsome alternative seems
      none.

      Nay, it were perhaps possible; with a man to do it. For if such
      inexpressible whirlpool of Babylonish confusions (which our Era
      is) cannot be stilled by man, but only by Time and men, a man may
      moderate its paroxysms, may balance and sway, and keep himself
      unswallowed on the top of it,—as several men and Kings in these
      days do. Much is possible for a man; men will obey a man that
      _kens_ and _cans_, and name him reverently their _Ken-ning_ or
      King. Did not Charlemagne rule? Consider too whether he had
      smooth times of it; hanging “thirty-thousand Saxons over the
      Weser-Bridge,” at one dread swoop! So likewise, who knows but, in
      this same distracted fanatic France, the right man may verily
      exist? An olive-complexioned taciturn man; for the present,
      Lieutenant in the Artillery-service, who once sat studying
      Mathematics at Brienne? The same who walked in the morning to
      correct proof-sheets at Dôle, and enjoyed a frugal breakfast with
      M. Joly? Such a one is gone, whither also famed General Paoli his
      friend is gone, in these very days, to see old scenes in native
      Corsica, and what Democratic good can be done there.

      Royalty never executes the evasion-plan, yet never abandons it;
      living in variable hope; undecisive, till fortune shall decide.
      In utmost secrecy, a brisk Correspondence goes on with Bouillé;
      there is also a plot, which emerges more than once, for carrying
      the King to Rouen:[335] plot after plot, emerging and submerging,
      like “_ignes fatui_ in foul weather, which lead no whither. About
      “ten o’clock at night,” the Hereditary Representative, in _partie
      quarrée_, with the Queen, with Brother Monsieur, and Madame, sits
      playing “_wisk_,” or whist. Usher Campan enters mysteriously,
      with a message he only half comprehends: How a certain Compte
      d’Inisdal waits anxious in the outer antechamber; National
      Colonel, Captain of the watch for this night, is gained over;
      post-horses ready all the way; party of Noblesse sitting armed,
      determined; will His Majesty, before midnight, consent to go?
      Profound silence; Campan waiting with upturned ear. ‘Did your
      Majesty hear what Campan said?’ asks the Queen. ‘Yes, I heard,’
      answers Majesty, and plays on. ‘’Twas a pretty couplet, that of
      Campan’s,’ hints Monsieur, who at times showed a pleasant wit:
      Majesty, still unresponsive, plays wisk. ‘After all, one must say
      something to Campan,’ remarks the Queen. ‘Tell M. d’Inisdal,’
      said the King, and the Queen puts an emphasis on it, ‘that the
      King cannot _consent_ to be forced away.’—‘I see!’ said
      d’Inisdal, whisking round, peaking himself into flame of
      irritancy: ‘we have the risk; we are to have all the blame if it
      fail,’[336]—and vanishes, he and his plot, as will-o’-wisps do.
      The Queen sat till far in the night, packing jewels: but it came
      to nothing; in that peaked frame of irritancy the Will-o’-wisp
      had gone _out_.

      Little hope there is in all this. Alas, with whom to fly? Our
      loyal _Gardes-du-Corps_, ever since the Insurrection of Women,
      are disbanded; gone to their homes; gone, many of them, across
      the Rhine towards Coblentz and Exiled Princes: brave Miomandre
      and brave Tardivet, these faithful Two, have received, in
      nocturnal interview with both Majesties, their _viaticum_ of gold
      louis, of heartfelt thanks from a Queen’s lips, though unluckily
      “his Majesty stood, back to fire, not speaking;”[337] and do now
      dine through the Provinces; recounting hairsbreadth escapes,
      insurrectionary horrors. Great horrors; to be swallowed yet of
      greater. But on the whole what a falling off from the old
      splendour of Versailles! Here in this poor Tuileries, a National
      Brewer-Colonel, sonorous Santerre, parades officially behind her
      Majesty’s chair. Our high dignitaries, all fled over the Rhine:
      nothing now to be gained at Court; but hopes, for which life
      itself must be risked! Obscure busy men frequent the back stairs;
      with hearsays, wind projects, unfruitful fanfaronades. Young
      Royalists, at the _Théâtre de Vaudeville_, “sing couplets;” if
      that could do any thing. Royalists enough, Captains on furlough,
      burnt-out Seigneurs, may likewise be met with, “in the Café de
      Valois, and at Méot the Restaurateur’s.” There they fan one
      another into high loyal glow; drink, in such wine as can be
      procured, confusion to Sansculottism; shew purchased dirks, of an
      improved structure, made to order; and, greatly daring,
      dine.[338] It is in these places, in these months, that the
      epithet _Sansculotte_ first gets applied to indigent Patriotism;
      in the last age we had Gilbert _Sansculotte_, the indigent
      Poet.[339] Destitute-of-Breeches: a mournful Destitution; which
      however, if Twenty millions share it, may become more effective
      than most Possessions!

      Meanwhile, amid this vague dim whirl of fanfaronades,
      wind-projects, poniards made to order, there does disclose itself
      one _punctum-saliens_ of life and feasibility: the finger of
      Mirabeau! Mirabeau and the Queen of France have met; have parted
      with mutual trust! It is strange; secret as the Mysteries; but it
      is indubitable. Mirabeau took horse, one evening; and rode
      westward, unattended,—to see Friend Clavière in that country
      house of his? Before getting to Clavière’s, the much-musing
      horseman struck aside to a back gate of the Garden of
      Saint-Cloud: some Duke d’Aremberg, or the like, was there to
      introduce him; the Queen was not far: on a “round knoll, _rond
      point_, the highest of the Garden of Saint-Cloud,” he beheld the
      Queen’s face; spake with her, alone, under the void canopy of
      Night. What an interview; fateful secret for us, after all
      searching; like the colloquies of the gods![340] She called him
      “a Mirabeau:” elsewhere we read that she “was charmed with him,”
      the wild submitted Titan; as indeed it is among the honourable
      tokens of this high ill-fated heart that no mind of any
      endowment, no Mirabeau, nay no Barnave, no Dumouriez, ever came
      face to face with her but, in spite of all prepossessions, she
      was forced to recognise it, to draw nigh to it, with trust. High
      imperial heart; with the instinctive attraction towards all that
      had any height! ‘You know not the Queen,’ said Mirabeau once in
      confidence; ‘her force of mind is prodigious; she is a man for
      courage.’[341]—And so, under the void Night, on the crown of that
      knoll, she has spoken with a Mirabeau: he has kissed loyally the
      queenly hand, and said with enthusiasm: ‘Madame, the Monarchy is
      saved!’—Possible? The Foreign Powers, mysteriously sounded, gave
      favourable guarded response;[342] Bouillé is at Metz, and could
      find forty-thousand sure Germans. With a Mirabeau for head, and a
      Bouillé for hand, something verily is possible,—if Fate intervene
      not.

      But figure under what thousandfold wrappages, and cloaks of
      darkness, Royalty, meditating these things, must involve itself.
      There are men with “Tickets of Entrance;” there are chivalrous
      consultings, mysterious plottings. Consider also whether, involve
      as it like, plotting Royalty can escape the glance of Patriotism;
      lynx-eyes, by the ten thousand fixed on it, which see in the
      dark! Patriotism knows much: know the dirks made to order, and
      can specify the shops; knows Sieur Motier’s legions of mouchards;
      the Tickets of _Entrée_, and men in black; and how plan of
      evasion succeeds plan,—or may be supposed to succeed it. Then
      conceive the couplets chanted at the _Théâtre de Vaudeville;_ or
      worse, the whispers, significant nods of traitors in moustaches.
      Conceive, on the other hand, the loud cry of alarm that came
      through the Hundred-and-Thirty Journals; the Dionysius’-Ear of
      each of the Forty-eight Sections, wakeful night and day.

      Patriotism is patient of much; not patient of all. The _Café de
      Procope_ has sent, visibly along the streets, a Deputation of
      Patriots, “to expostulate with bad Editors,” by trustful word of
      mouth: singular to see and hear. The bad Editors promise to
      amend, but do not. Deputations for change of Ministry were many;
      Mayor Bailly joining even with Cordelier Danton in such: and they
      have prevailed. With what profit? Of Quacks, willing or
      constrained to be Quacks, the race is everlasting: Ministers
      Duportail and Dutertre will have to manage much as Ministers
      Latour-du-Pin and Cicé did. So welters the confused world.

      But now, beaten on for ever by such inextricable contradictory
      influences and evidences, what is the indigent French Patriot, in
      these unhappy days, to believe, and walk by? Uncertainty all;
      except that he is wretched, indigent; that a glorious Revolution,
      the wonder of the Universe, has hitherto brought neither Bread
      nor Peace; being marred by traitors, difficult to discover.
      Traitors that dwell in the dark, invisible there;—or seen for
      moments, in pallid dubious twilight, stealthily vanishing
      thither! Preternatural Suspicion once more rules the minds of
      men.

      “Nobody here,” writes Carra of the _Annales Patriotiques_, so
      early as the first of February, “can entertain a doubt of the
      constant obstinate project these people have on foot to get the
      King away; or of the perpetual succession of manœuvres they
      employ for that.” Nobody: the watchful Mother of Patriotism
      deputed two Members to her Daughter at Versailles, to examine how
      the matter looked there. Well, and there? Patriotic Carra
      continues: “The Report of these two deputies we all heard with
      our own ears last Saturday. They went with others of Versailles,
      to inspect the King’s Stables, also the stables of the whilom
      _Gardes du Corps;_ they found there from seven to eight hundred
      horses standing always saddled and bridled, ready for the road at
      a moment’s notice. The same deputies, moreover, saw with their
      own two eyes several Royal Carriages, which men were even then
      busy loading with large well-stuffed luggage-bags,” leather cows,
      as we call them, “_vaches de cuir;_ the Royal Arms on the panels
      almost entirely effaced.” Momentous enough! Also, “on the same
      day the whole _Maréchaussée_, or Cavalry Police, did assemble
      with arms, horses and baggage,”—and disperse again. They want the
      King over the marches, that so Emperor Leopold and the German
      Princes, whose troops are ready, may have a pretext for
      beginning: “this,” adds Carra, “is the word of the riddle: this
      is the reason why our fugitive Aristocrats are now making levies
      of men on the frontiers; expecting that, one of these mornings,
      the Executive Chief Magistrate will be brought over to them, and
      the civil war commence.”[343]

      If indeed the Executive Chief Magistrate, bagged, say in one of
      these leather _cows_, were once brought safe over to them! But
      the strangest thing of all is that Patriotism, whether barking at
      a venture, or guided by some instinct of preternatural sagacity,
      is actually barking _aright_ this time; at something, not at
      nothing. Bouillé’s Secret Correspondence, since made public,
      testifies as much.

      Nay, it is undeniable, visible to all, that _Mesdames_ the King’s
      Aunts are taking steps for departure: asking passports of the
      Ministry, safe-conducts of the Municipality; which Marat warns
      all men to beware of. They will carry gold with them, “these old
      _Béguines;_” nay they will carry the little Dauphin, “having
      nursed a changeling, for some time, to leave in his stead!”
      Besides, they are as some light substance flung up, to shew how
      the wind sits; a kind of proof-kite you fly off to ascertain
      whether the grand paper-kite, Evasion of the King, may mount!

      In these alarming circumstances, Patriotism is not wanting to
      itself. Municipality deputes to the King; Sections depute to the
      Municipality; a National Assembly will soon stir. Meanwhile,
      behold, on the 19th of February 1791, Mesdames, quitting Bellevue
      and Versailles with all privacy, are off! Towards Rome,
      seemingly; or one knows not whither. They are not without King’s
      passports, countersigned; and what is more to the purpose, a
      serviceable Escort. The Patriotic Mayor or Mayorlet of the
      Village of Moret tried to detain them; but brisk Louis de
      Narbonne, of the Escort, dashed off at hand-gallop; returned soon
      with thirty dragoons, and victoriously cut them out. And so the
      poor ancient women go their way; to the terror of France and
      Paris, whose nervous excitability is become extreme. Who else
      would hinder poor _Loque_ and _Graille_, now grown so old, and
      fallen into such unexpected circumstances, when gossip itself
      turning only on terrors and horrors is no longer pleasant to the
      mind, and you cannot get so much as an orthodox confessor in
      peace,—from going what way soever the hope of any solacement
      might lead them?

      They go, poor ancient dames,—whom the heart were hard that does
      not pity: they go; with palpitations, with unmelodious suppressed
      screechings; all France, screeching and cackling, in loud
      _un_suppressed terror, behind and on both hands of them: such
      mutual suspicion is among men. At Arnay le Duc, above halfway to
      the frontiers, a Patriotic Municipality and Populace again takes
      courage to stop them: Louis Narbonne must now back to Paris, must
      consult the National Assembly. National Assembly answers, not
      without an effort, that Mesdames may go. Whereupon Paris rises
      worse than ever, screeching half-distracted. Tuileries and
      precincts are filled with women and men, while the National
      Assembly debates this question of questions; Lafayette is needed
      at night for dispersing them, and the streets are to be
      illuminated. Commandant Berthier, a Berthier before whom are
      great things unknown, lies for the present under blockade at
      Bellevue in Versailles. By no tactics could he get Mesdames’
      Luggage stirred from the Courts there; frantic Versaillese women
      came screaming about him; his very troops cut the waggon-traces;
      he retired to the interior, waiting better times.[344]

      Nay, in these same hours, while Mesdames hardly cut out from
      Moret by the sabre’s edge, are driving rapidly, to foreign parts,
      and not yet stopped at Arnay, their august nephew poor Monsieur,
      at Paris has dived deep into his cellars of the Luxembourg for
      shelter; and according to Montgaillard can hardly be persuaded up
      again. Screeching multitudes environ that Luxembourg of his:
      drawn thither by report of his departure: but, at sight and sound
      of Monsieur, they become crowing multitudes; and escort Madame
      and him to the Tuileries with vivats.[345] It is a state of
      nervous excitability such as few Nations know.


      Chapter 2.3.V.
      The Day of Poniards.

      Or, again, what means this visible reparation of the Castle of
      Vincennes? Other Jails being all crowded with prisoners, new
      space is wanted here: that is the Municipal account. For in such
      changing of Judicatures, Parlements being abolished, and New
      Courts but just set up, prisoners have accumulated. Not to say
      that in these times of discord and club-law, offences and
      committals are, at any rate, more numerous. Which Municipal
      account, does it not sufficiently explain the phenomenon? Surely,
      to repair the Castle of Vincennes was of all enterprises that an
      enlightened Municipality could undertake, the most innocent.

      Not so however does neighbouring Saint-Antoine look on it:
      Saint-Antoine to whom these peaked turrets and grim donjons,
      all-too near her own dark dwelling, are of themselves an offence.
      Was not Vincennes a kind of minor Bastille? Great Diderot and
      Philosophes have lain in durance here; great Mirabeau, in
      disastrous eclipse, for forty-two months. And now when the old
      Bastille has become a dancing-ground (had any one the mirth to
      dance), and its stones are getting built into the Pont
      Louis-Seize, does this minor, comparative insignificance of a
      Bastille flank itself with fresh-hewn mullions, spread out
      tyrannous wings; menacing Patriotism? New space for prisoners:
      and what prisoners? A d’Orléans, with the chief Patriots on the
      tip of the Left? It is said, there runs “a subterranean passage”
      all the way from the Tuileries hither. Who knows? Paris, mined
      with quarries and catacombs, does hang wondrous over the abyss;
      Paris was once to be blown up,—though the powder, when we went to
      look, had got withdrawn. A Tuileries, sold to Austria and
      Coblentz, should have no subterranean passage. Out of which might
      not Coblentz or Austria issue, some morning; and, with cannon of
      long range, “_foudroyer_,” bethunder a patriotic Saint-Antoine
      into smoulder and ruin!

      So meditates the benighted soul of Saint-Antoine, as it sees the
      aproned workmen, in early spring, busy on these towers. An
      official-speaking Municipality, a Sieur Motier with his legions
      of _mouchards_, deserve no trust at all. Were Patriot Santerre,
      indeed, Commander! But the sonorous Brewer commands only our own
      Battalion: of such secrets he can explain nothing, knows nothing,
      perhaps suspects much. And so the work goes on; and afflicted
      benighted Saint-Antoine hears rattle of hammers, sees stones
      suspended in air.[346]

      Saint-Antoine prostrated the first great Bastille: will it falter
      over this comparative insignificance of a Bastille? Friends, what
      if we took pikes, firelocks, sledgehammers; and helped
      ourselves!—Speedier is no remedy; nor so certain. On the 28th day
      of February, Saint-Antoine turns out, as it has now often done;
      and, apparently with little superfluous tumult, moves eastward to
      that eye-sorrow of Vincennes. With grave voice of authority, no
      need of bullying and shouting, Saint-Antoine signifies to parties
      concerned there that its purpose is, To have this suspicious
      Stronghold razed level with the general soil of the country.
      Remonstrance may be proffered, with zeal: but it avails not. The
      outer gate goes up, drawbridges tumble; iron window-stanchions,
      smitten out with sledgehammers, become iron-crowbars: it rains
      furniture, stone-masses, slates: with chaotic clatter and rattle,
      Demolition clatters down. And now hasty expresses rush through
      the agitated streets, to warn Lafayette, and the Municipal and
      Departmental Authorities; Rumour warns a National Assembly, a
      Royal Tuileries, and all men who care to hear it: That
      Saint-Antoine is up; that Vincennes, and probably the last
      remaining Institution of the Country, is coming down.[347]

      Quick, then! Let Lafayette roll his drums and fly eastward; for
      to all Constitutional Patriots this is again bad news. And you,
      ye Friends of Royalty, snatch your poniards of improved
      structure, made to order; your sword-canes, secret arms, and
      tickets of entry; quick, by backstairs passages, rally round the
      Son of Sixty Kings. An effervescence probably got up by d’Orléans
      and Company, for the overthrow of Throne and Altar: it is said
      her Majesty shall be put in prison, put out of the way; what then
      will _his_ Majesty be? Clay for the Sansculottic Potter! Or were
      it impossible to fly this day; a brave Noblesse suddenly all
      rallying? Peril threatens, hope invites: Dukes de Villequier, de
      Duras, Gentlemen of the Chamber give tickets and admittance; a
      brave Noblesse is suddenly all rallying. Now were the time to
      “fall sword in hand on those gentry there,” could it be done with
      effect.

      The Hero of two Worlds is on his white charger; blue Nationals,
      horse and foot, hurrying eastward: Santerre, with the
      Saint-Antoine Battalion, is already there,—apparently indisposed
      to act. Heavy-laden Hero of two Worlds, what tasks are these! The
      jeerings, provocative gambollings of that Patriot Suburb, which
      is all out on the streets now, are hard to endure; unwashed
      Patriots jeering in sulky sport; one unwashed Patriot “seizing
      the General by the boot” to unhorse him. Santerre, ordered to
      fire, makes answer obliquely, ‘These are the men that took the
      Bastille;’ and not a trigger stirs! Neither dare the Vincennes
      Magistracy give warrant of arrestment, or the smallest
      countenance: wherefore the General “will take it on himself” to
      arrest. By promptitude, by cheerful adroitness, patience and
      brisk valour without limits, the riot may be again bloodlessly
      appeased.

      Meanwhile, the rest of Paris, with more or less unconcern, may
      mind the rest of its business: for what is this but an
      effervescence, of which there are now so many? The National
      Assembly, in one of its stormiest moods, is debating a Law
      against Emigration; Mirabeau declaring aloud, ‘I swear beforehand
      that I will not obey it.’ Mirabeau is often at the Tribune this
      day; with endless impediments from without; with the old unabated
      energy from within. What can murmurs and clamours, from Left or
      from Right, do to this man; like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved?
      With clear thought; with strong bass-voice, though at first low,
      uncertain, he claims audience, sways the storm of men: anon the
      sound of him waxes, softens; he rises into far-sounding melody of
      strength, triumphant, which subdues all hearts; his rude-seamed
      face, desolate fire-scathed, becomes fire-lit, and radiates: once
      again men feel, in these beggarly ages, what is the potency and
      omnipotency of man’s word on the souls of men. ‘I will triumph or
      be torn in fragments,’ he was once heard to say. ‘Silence,’ he
      cries now, in strong word of command, in imperial consciousness
      of strength, ‘Silence, the thirty voices, _Silence aux trente
      voix!_’—and Robespierre and the Thirty Voices die into
      mutterings; and the Law is once more as Mirabeau would have it.

      How different, at the same instant, is General Lafayette’s street
      eloquence; wrangling with sonorous Brewers, with an ungrammatical
      Saint-Antoine! Most different, again, from both is the
      Café-de-Valois eloquence, and suppressed fanfaronade, of this
      multitude of men with Tickets of Entry; who are now inundating
      the Corridors of the Tuileries. Such things can go on
      simultaneously in one City. How much more in one Country; in one
      Planet with its discrepancies, every Day a mere crackling
      infinitude of discrepancies—which nevertheless do yield some
      coherent net-product, though an infinitesimally small one!

      Be this as it may. Lafayette has saved Vincennes; and is marching
      homewards with some dozen of arrested demolitionists. Royalty is
      not yet saved;—nor indeed specially endangered. But to the King’s
      Constitutional Guard, to these old Gardes Françaises, or Centre
      Grenadiers, as it chanced to be, this affluence of men with
      Tickets of Entry is becoming more and more unintelligible. Is his
      Majesty verily for Metz, then; to be carried off by these men, on
      the spur of the instant? That revolt of Saint-Antoine got up by
      traitor Royalists for a stalking-horse? Keep a sharp outlook, ye
      Centre Grenadiers on duty here: good never came from the “men in
      black.” Nay they have cloaks, _rédingotes;_ some of them
      leather-breeches, boots,—as if for instant riding! Or what is
      this that sticks visible from the lapelle of Chevalier de
      Court?[348] Too like the handle of some cutting or stabbing
      instrument! He glides and goes; and still the dudgeon sticks from
      his left lapelle. ‘Hold, Monsieur!’—a Centre Grenadier clutches
      him; clutches the protrusive dudgeon, whisks it out in the face
      of the world: by Heaven, a very dagger; hunting-knife, or
      whatsoever you call it; fit to drink the life of Patriotism!

      So fared it with Chevalier de Court, early in the day; not
      without noise; not without commentaries. And now this continually
      increasing multitude at nightfall? Have they daggers too? Alas,
      with them too, after angry parleyings, there has begun a groping
      and a rummaging; all men in black, spite of their Tickets of
      Entry, are clutched by the collar, and groped. Scandalous to
      think of; for always, as the dirk, sword-cane, pistol, or were it
      but tailor’s bodkin, is found on him, and with loud scorn drawn
      forth from him, he, the hapless man in black, is flung all too
      rapidly down stairs. Flung; and ignominiously descends, head
      foremost; accelerated by ignominious shovings from sentry after
      sentry; nay, as is written, by smitings, twitchings,—spurnings,
      _à posteriori_, not to be named. In this accelerated way,
      emerges, uncertain which end uppermost, man after man in black,
      through all issues, into the Tuileries Garden. Emerges, alas,
      into the arms of an indignant multitude, now gathered and
      gathering there, in the hour of dusk, to see what is toward, and
      whether the Hereditary Representative is carried off or not.
      Hapless men in black; at last _convicted_ of poniards made to
      order; convicted “Chevaliers of the Poniard!” Within is as the
      burning ship; without is as the deep sea. Within is no help; his
      Majesty, looking forth, one moment, from his interior
      sanctuaries, coldly bids all visitors “give up their weapons;”
      and shuts the door again. The weapons given up form a heap: the
      convicted Chevaliers of the poniard keep descending pellmell,
      with impetuous velocity; and at the bottom of all staircases, the
      mixed multitude receives them, hustles, buffets, chases and
      disperses them.[349]

      Such sight meets Lafayette, in the dusk of the evening, as he
      returns, successful with difficulty at Vincennes: Sansculotte
      Scylla hardly weathered, here is Aristocrat Charybdis gurgling
      under his lee! The patient Hero of two Worlds almost loses
      temper. He accelerates, does not retard, the flying Chevaliers;
      delivers, indeed, this or the other hunted Loyalist of quality,
      but rates him in bitter words, such as the hour suggested; such
      as no saloon could pardon. Hero ill-bested; hanging, so to speak,
      in mid-air; hateful to Rich divinities above; hateful to Indigent
      mortals below! Duke de Villequier, Gentleman of the Chamber, gets
      such contumelious rating, in presence of all people there, that
      he may see good first to exculpate himself in the Newspapers;
      then, that not prospering, to retire over the Frontiers, and
      begin plotting at Brussels.[350] His Apartment will stand vacant;
      usefuller, as we may find, than when it stood occupied.

      So fly the Chevaliers of the Poniard; hunted of Patriotic men,
      shamefully in the thickening dusk. A dim miserable business; born
      of darkness; dying away there in the thickening dusk and dimness!
      In the midst of which, however, let the reader discern clearly
      one figure running for its life: Crispin-Cataline
      d’Espréménil,—for the last time, or the last but one. It is not
      yet three years since these same Centre Grenadiers, Gardes
      Françaises then, marched him towards the Calypso Isles, in the
      gray of the May morning; and he and they have got thus far.
      Buffeted, beaten down, delivered by popular Pétion, he might well
      answer bitterly: ‘And I too, Monsieur, have been carried on the
      People’s shoulders.’[351] A fact which popular Pétion, if he
      like, can meditate.

      But happily, one way and another, the speedy night covers up this
      ignominious Day of Poniards; and the Chevaliers escape, though
      maltreated, with torn coat-skirts and heavy hearts, to their
      respective dwelling-houses. Riot twofold is quelled; and little
      blood shed, if it be not insignificant blood from the nose:
      Vincennes stands undemolished, reparable; and the Hereditary
      Representative has not been stolen, nor the Queen smuggled into
      Prison. A Day long remembered: commented on with loud hahas and
      deep grumblings; with bitter scornfulness of triumph, bitter
      rancour of defeat. Royalism, as usual, imputes it to d’Orléans
      and the Anarchists intent on insulting Majesty: Patriotism, as
      usual, to Royalists, and even Constitutionalists, intent on
      stealing Majesty to Metz: we, also as usual, to Preternatural
      Suspicion, and Phoebus Apollo having made himself like the Night.

      Thus, however, has the reader seen, in an unexpected arena, on
      this last day of February 1791, the Three long-contending
      elements of French Society, dashed forth into singular
      comico-tragical collision; acting and reacting openly to the eye.
      Constitutionalism, at once quelling Sansculottic riot at
      Vincennes, and Royalist treachery from the Tuileries, is great,
      this day, and prevails. As for poor Royalism, tossed to and fro
      in that manner, its daggers all left in a heap, what can one
      think of it? Every dog, the Adage says, has its day: _has_ it;
      has had it; or will have it. For the present, the day is
      Lafayette’s and the Constitution’s. Nevertheless Hunger and
      Jacobinism, fast growing fanatical, still work; their-day, were
      they once fanatical, will come. Hitherto, in all tempests,
      Lafayette, like some divine Sea-ruler, raises his serene head:
      the upper Æolus’s blasts fly back to their caves, like foolish
      unbidden winds: the under sea-billows they had vexed into froth
      allay themselves. But if, as we often write, the _sub_marine
      Titanic Fire-powers came into play, the Ocean bed from beneath
      being _burst?_ If they hurled Poseidon Lafayette and his
      Constitution out of Space; and, in the Titanic melee, sea were
      mixed with sky?


      Chapter 2.3.VI.
      Mirabeau.

      The spirit of France waxes ever more acrid, fever-sick: towards
      the final outburst of dissolution and delirium. Suspicion rules
      all minds: contending parties cannot now commingle; stand
      separated sheer asunder, eying one another, in most aguish mood,
      of cold terror or hot rage. Counter-Revolution, Days of Poniards,
      Castries Duels; Flight of Mesdames, of Monsieur and Royalty!
      Journalism shrills ever louder its cry of alarm. The sleepless
      Dionysius’s Ear of the Forty-eight Sections, how feverishly quick
      has it grown; convulsing with strange pangs the whole sick Body,
      as in such sleeplessness and sickness, the ear will do!

      Since Royalists get Poniards made to order, and a Sieur Motier is
      no better than he should be, shall not Patriotism too, even of
      the indigent sort, have Pikes, secondhand Firelocks, in readiness
      for the worst? The anvils ring, during this March month, with
      hammering of Pikes. A Constitutional Municipality promulgated its
      Placard, that no citizen except the “active or cash-citizen” was
      entitled to have arms; but there rose, instantly responsive, such
      a tempest of astonishment from Club and Section, that the
      Constitutional Placard, almost next morning, had to cover itself
      up, and die away into inanity, in a second improved edition.[352]
      So the hammering continues; as all that it betokens does.

      Mark, again, how the extreme tip of the Left is mounting in
      favour, if not in its own National Hall, yet with the Nation,
      especially with Paris. For in such universal panic of doubt, the
      opinion that is sure of itself, as the meagrest opinion may the
      soonest be, is the one to which all men will rally. Great is
      Belief, were it never so meagre; and leads captive the doubting
      heart! Incorruptible Robespierre has been elected Public Accuser
      in our new Courts of Judicature; virtuous Pétion, it is thought,
      may rise to be Mayor. Cordelier Danton, called also by triumphant
      majorities, sits at the Departmental Council-table; colleague
      there of Mirabeau. Of incorruptible Robespierre it was long ago
      predicted that he might go far, mean meagre mortal though he was;
      for Doubt dwelt not in him.

      Under which circumstances ought not Royalty likewise to cease
      doubting, and begin deciding and acting? Royalty has always that
      sure trump-card in its hand: Flight out of Paris. Which sure
      trump-card, Royalty, as we see, keeps ever and anon clutching at,
      grasping; and swashes it forth tentatively; yet never tables it,
      still puts it back again. Play it, O Royalty! If there be a
      chance left, this seems it, and verily the last chance; and now
      every hour is rendering this a doubtfuller. Alas, one would so
      fain both fly and not fly; play one’s card and have it to play.
      Royalty, in all human likelihood, will not play its trump-card
      till the honours, one after one, be mainly lost; and such
      trumping of it prove to be the sudden finish of the game!

      Here accordingly a question always arises; of the prophetic sort;
      which cannot now be answered. Suppose Mirabeau, with whom Royalty
      takes deep counsel, as with a Prime Minister that cannot yet
      legally avow himself as such, had got his arrangements
      _completed?_ Arrangements he has; far-stretching plans that dawn
      fitfully on us, by fragments, in the confused darkness. Thirty
      Departments ready to sign loyal Addresses, of prescribed tenor:
      King carried out of Paris, but only to Compiègne and Rouen,
      hardly to Metz, since, once for all, no Emigrant rabble shall
      take the lead in it: National Assembly consenting, by dint of
      loyal Addresses, by management, by force of Bouillé, to hear
      reason, and follow thither![353] Was it so, on _these_ terms,
      that Jacobinism and Mirabeau were then to grapple, in their
      Hercules-and-Typhon duel; death inevitable for the one or the
      other? The duel itself is determined on, and sure: but on what
      terms; much more, with what issue, we in vain guess. It is vague
      darkness all: unknown what is to be; unknown even what has
      already been. The giant Mirabeau walks in darkness, as we said;
      companionless, on wild ways: what his thoughts during these
      months were, no record of Biographer, not vague _Fils Adoptif_,
      will now ever disclose.

      To us, endeavouring to cast his horoscope, it of course remains
      doubly vague. There is one Herculean man, in internecine duel
      with him, there is Monster after Monster. Emigrant Noblesse
      return, sword on thigh, vaunting of their Loyalty never sullied;
      descending from the air, like Harpy-swarms with ferocity, with
      obscene greed. Earthward there is the Typhon of Anarchy,
      Political, Religious; sprawling hundred-headed, say with
      Twenty-five million heads; wide as the area of France; fierce as
      Frenzy; strong in very Hunger. With these shall the
      Serpent-queller do battle continually, and expect no rest.

      As for the King, he as usual will go wavering chameleonlike;
      changing colour and purpose with the colour of his
      environment;—good for no Kingly use. On one royal person, on the
      Queen only, can Mirabeau perhaps place dependance. It is
      possible, the greatness of this man, not unskilled too in
      blandishments, courtiership, and graceful adroitness, might, with
      most legitimate sorcery, fascinate the volatile Queen, and fix
      her to him. She has courage for all noble daring; an eye and a
      heart: the soul of Theresa’s Daughter. “_Faut il-donc_, Is it
      fated then,” she passionately writes to her Brother, “that I with
      the blood I am come of, with the sentiments I have, must live and
      die among such mortals?”[354] Alas, poor Princess, Yes. “She is
      the only _man_,” as Mirabeau observes, “whom his Majesty has
      about him.” Of one other man Mirabeau is still surer: of himself.
      There lies his resources; sufficient or insufficient.

      Dim and great to the eye of Prophecy looks the future! A
      perpetual life-and-death battle; confusion from above and from
      below;—mere confused darkness for us; with here and there some
      streak of faint lurid light. We see King perhaps laid aside; not
      tonsured, tonsuring is out of fashion now; but say, sent away any
      whither, with handsome annual allowance, and stock of
      smith-tools. We see a Queen and Dauphin, Regent and Minor; a
      Queen “mounted on horseback,” in the din of battles, with
      _Moriamur pro rege nostro!_ “Such a day,” Mirabeau writes, “may
      come.”

      Din of battles, wars more than civil, confusion from above and
      from below: in such environment the eye of Prophecy sees Comte de
      Mirabeau, like some Cardinal de Retz, stormfully maintain
      himself; with head all-devising, heart all-daring, if not
      victorious, yet unvanquished, while life is left him. The
      specialties and issues of it, no eye of Prophecy can guess at: it
      is clouds, we repeat, and tempestuous night; and in the middle of
      it, now visible, far darting, now labouring in eclipse, is
      Mirabeau indomitably struggling to be Cloud-Compeller!—One can
      say that, had Mirabeau lived, the History of France and of the
      World had been different. Further, that the man would have
      needed, as few men ever did, the whole compass of that same “Art
      of Daring, _Art d’Oser_,” which he so prized; and likewise that
      he, above all men then living, would have practised and
      manifested it. Finally, that some substantiality, and no empty
      simulacrum of a formula, would have been the result realised by
      him: a result you could have loved, a result you could have
      hated; by no likelihood, a result you could only have rejected
      with closed lips, and swept into quick forgetfulness for ever.
      Had Mirabeau lived one other year!


      Chapter 2.3.VII.
      Death of Mirabeau.

      But Mirabeau could not live another year, any more than he could
      live another thousand years. Men’s years are numbered, and the
      tale of Mirabeau’s was now complete. Important, or unimportant;
      to be mentioned in World-History for some centuries, or not to be
      mentioned there beyond a day or two,—it matters not to peremptory
      Fate. From amid the press of ruddy busy Life, the Pale Messenger
      beckons silently: wide-spreading interests, projects, salvation
      of French Monarchies, what thing soever man has on hand, he must
      suddenly quit it all, and go. Wert thou saving French Monarchies;
      wert thou blacking shoes on the Pont Neuf! The most important of
      men cannot stay; did the World’s History depend on an hour, that
      hour is not to be given. Whereby, indeed, it comes that these
      same _would-have-beens_ are mostly a vanity; and the World’s
      History could never in the least be what it would, or might, or
      should, by any manner of potentiality, but simply and altogether
      what it _is_.

      The fierce wear and tear of such an existence has wasted out the
      giant oaken strength of Mirabeau. A fret and fever that keeps
      heart and brain on fire: excess of effort, of excitement; excess
      of all kinds: labour incessant, almost beyond credibility! “If I
      had not lived with him,” says Dumont, “I should never have known
      what a man can make of one day; what things may be placed within
      the interval of twelve hours. A day for this man was more than a
      week or a month is for others: the mass of things he guided on
      together was prodigious; from the scheming to the executing not a
      moment lost.” ‘Monsieur le Comte,’ said his Secretary to him
      once, ‘what you require is impossible.’—‘Impossible!’ answered he
      starting from his chair, ‘_Ne me dites jamais ce bête de mot_,
      Never name to me that blockhead of a word.’[355] And then the
      social repasts; the dinner which he gives as Commandant of
      National Guards, which “costs five hundred pounds;” alas, and
      “the Sirens of the Opera;” and all the ginger that is hot in the
      mouth:—down what a course is this man hurled! Cannot Mirabeau
      stop; cannot he fly, and save himself alive? No! There is a
      Nessus’ Shirt on this Hercules; he must storm and burn there,
      without rest, till he be consumed. Human strength, never so
      Herculean, has its measure. Herald shadows flit pale across the
      fire-brain of Mirabeau; heralds of the pale repose. While he
      tosses and storms, straining every nerve, in that sea of ambition
      and confusion, there comes, sombre and still, a monition that for
      him the issue of it will be swift death.

      In January last, you might see him as President of the Assembly;
      “his neck wrapt in linen cloths, at the evening session:” there
      was sick heat of the blood, alternate darkening and flashing in
      the eye-sight; he had to apply leeches, after the morning labour,
      and preside bandaged. “At parting he embraced me,” says Dumont,
      “with an emotion I had never seen in him: ‘I am dying, my friend;
      dying as by slow fire; we shall perhaps not meet again. When I am
      gone, they will know what the value of me was. The miseries I
      have held back will burst from all sides on France.’”[356]
      Sickness gives louder warning; but cannot be listened to. On the
      27th day of March, proceeding towards the Assembly, he had to
      seek rest and help in Friend de Lamarck’s, by the road; and lay
      there, for an hour, half-fainted, stretched on a sofa. To the
      Assembly nevertheless he went, as if in spite of Destiny itself;
      spoke, loud and eager, five several times; then quitted the
      Tribune—for ever. He steps out, utterly exhausted, into the
      Tuileries Gardens; many people press round him, as usual, with
      applications, memorials; he says to the Friend who was with him:
      Take me out of this!

      And so, on the last day of March 1791, endless anxious multitudes
      beset the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin; incessantly inquiring:
      within doors there, in that House numbered in our time “42,” the
      over wearied giant has fallen down, to die.[357] Crowds, of all
      parties and kinds; of all ranks from the King to the meanest man!
      The King sends publicly twice a-day to inquire; privately
      besides: from the world at large there is no end of inquiring. “A
      written bulletin is handed out every three hours,” is copied and
      circulated; in the end, it is printed. The People spontaneously
      keep silence; no carriage shall enter with its noise: there is
      crowding pressure; but the Sister of Mirabeau is reverently
      recognised, and has free way made for her. The People stand mute,
      heart-stricken; to all it seems as if a great calamity were nigh:
      as if the last man of France, who could have swayed these coming
      troubles, lay there at hand-grips with the unearthly Power.

      The silence of a whole People, the wakeful toil of Cabanis,
      Friend and Physician, skills not: on Saturday, the second day of
      April, Mirabeau feels that the last of the Days has risen for
      him; that, on this day, he has to depart and be no more. His
      death is Titanic, as his life has been. Lit up, for the last
      time, in the glare of coming dissolution, the mind of the man is
      all glowing and burning; utters itself in sayings, such as men
      long remember. He longs to live, yet acquiesces in death, argues
      not with the inexorable. His speech is wild and wondrous:
      unearthly Phantasms dancing now their torch-dance round his soul;
      the soul itself looking out, fire-radiant, motionless, girt
      together for that great hour! At times comes a beam of light from
      him on the world he is quitting. ‘I carry in my heart the
      death-dirge of the French Monarchy; the dead remains of it will
      now be the spoil of the factious.’ Or again, when he heard the
      cannon fire, what is characteristic too: ‘Have we the Achilles’
      Funeral already?’ So likewise, while some friend is supporting
      him: ‘Yes, support that head; would I could bequeath it thee!’
      For the man dies as he has lived; self-conscious, conscious of a
      world looking on. He gazes forth on the young Spring, which for
      him will never be Summer. The Sun has risen; he says: ‘_Si ce
      n’est pas là Dieu, c’est du moins son cousin
      germain_.’[358]—Death has mastered the outworks; power of speech
      is gone; the citadel of the heart still holding out: the moribund
      giant, passionately, by sign, demands paper and pen; writes his
      passionate demand for opium, to end these agonies. The sorrowful
      Doctor shakes his head: _Dormir_ “To sleep,” writes the other,
      passionately pointing at it! So dies a gigantic Heathen and
      Titan; stumbling blindly, undismayed, down to his rest. At
      half-past eight in the morning, Dr. Petit, standing at the foot
      of the bed, says ‘_Il ne souffre plus_.’ His suffering and his
      working are now ended.

      Even so, ye silent Patriot multitudes, all ye men of France; this
      man is rapt away from you. He has fallen suddenly, without
      bending till he broke; as a tower falls, smitten by sudden
      lightning. His word ye shall hear no more, his guidance follow no
      more.—The multitudes depart, heartstruck; spread the sad tidings.
      How touching is the loyalty of men to their Sovereign Man! All
      theatres, public amusements close; no joyful meeting can be held
      in these nights, joy is not for them: the People break in upon
      private dancing-parties, and sullenly command that they cease. Of
      such dancing-parties apparently but two came to light; and these
      also have gone out. The gloom is universal: never in this City
      was such sorrow for one death; never since that old night when
      Louis XII. departed, “and the _Crieurs des Corps_ went sounding
      their bells, and crying along the streets: _Le bon roi Louis,
      père du peuple, est mort_, The good King Louis, Father of the
      People, is dead!”[359] King Mirabeau is now the lost King; and
      one may say with little exaggeration, all the People mourns for
      him.

      For three days there is low wide moan: weeping in the National
      Assembly itself. The streets are all mournful; orators mounted on
      the _bornes_, with large silent audience, preaching the funeral
      sermon of the dead. Let no coachman whip fast, distractively with
      his rolling wheels, or almost at all, through these groups! His
      traces may be cut; himself and his fare, as incurable
      Aristocrats, hurled sulkily into the kennels. The bourne-stone
      orators speak as it is given them; the Sansculottic People, with
      its rude soul, listens eager,—as men will to any Sermon, or
      _Sermo_, when it _is_ a spoken Word meaning a Thing, and not a
      Babblement meaning No-thing. In the Restaurateur’s of the Palais
      Royal, the waiter remarks, ‘Fine weather, Monsieur:’—‘Yes, my
      friend,’ answers the ancient Man of Letters, ‘very fine; but
      Mirabeau is dead.’ Hoarse rhythmic threnodies comes also from the
      throats of balladsingers; are sold on gray-white paper at a _sou_
      each.[360] But of Portraits, engraved, painted, hewn, and
      written; of Eulogies, Reminiscences, Biographies, nay
      _Vaudevilles_, Dramas and Melodramas, in all Provinces of France,
      there will, through these coming months, be the due immeasurable
      crop; thick as the leaves of Spring. Nor, that a tincture of
      burlesque might be in it, is Gobel’s Episcopal _Mandement_
      wanting; goose Gobel, who has just been made Constitutional
      Bishop of Paris. A Mandement wherein _Ça ira_ alternates very
      strangely with _Nomine Domini_, and you are, with a grave
      countenance, invited to “rejoice at possessing in the midst of
      you a body of Prelates created by Mirabeau, zealous followers of
      his doctrine, faithful imitators of his virtues.”[361] So speaks,
      and cackles manifold, the Sorrow of France; wailing articulately,
      inarticulately, as it can, that a Sovereign Man is snatched away.
      In the National Assembly, when difficult questions are astir, all
      eyes will “turn mechanically to the place where Mirabeau
      sat,”—and Mirabeau is absent now.

      On the third evening of the lamentation, the fourth of April,
      there is solemn Public Funeral; such as deceased mortal seldom
      had. Procession of a league in length; of mourners reckoned
      loosely at a hundred thousand! All roofs are thronged with
      onlookers, all windows, lamp-irons, branches of trees. “Sadness
      is painted on every countenance; many persons weep.” There is
      double hedge of National Guards; there is National Assembly in a
      body; Jacobin Society, and Societies; King’s Ministers,
      Municipals, and all Notabilities, Patriot or Aristocrat. Bouillé
      is noticeable there, “with his hat on;” say, hat drawn over his
      brow, hiding many thoughts! Slow-wending, in religious silence,
      the Procession of a league in length, under the level sun-rays,
      for it is five o’clock, moves and marches: with its sable plumes;
      itself in a religious silence; but, by fits, with the muffled
      roll of drums, by fits with some long-drawn wail of music, and
      strange new clangour of trombones, and metallic dirge-voice; amid
      the infinite hum of men. In the Church of Saint-Eustache, there
      is funeral oration by Cerutti; and discharge of fire-arms, which
      “brings down pieces of the plaster.” Thence, forward again to the
      Church of Sainte-Genevieve; which has been consecrated, by
      supreme decree, on the spur of this time, into a Pantheon for the
      Great Men of the Fatherland, _Aux Grands Hommes la Patrie
      réconnaissante_. Hardly at midnight is the business done; and
      Mirabeau left in his dark dwelling: first tenant of that
      Fatherland’s Pantheon.

      Tenant, alas, who inhabits but at will, and shall be cast out!
      For, in these days of convulsion and disjection, not even the
      dust of the dead is permitted to rest. Voltaire’s bones are, by
      and by, to be carried from their stolen grave in the Abbéy of
      Scellières, to an eager _stealing_ grave, in Paris his
      birth-city: all mortals processioning and perorating there; cars
      drawn by eight white horses, goadsters in classical costume, with
      fillets and wheat-ears enough;—though the weather is of the
      wettest.[362] Evangelist Jean Jacques, too, as is most proper,
      must be dug up from Ermenonville, and processioned, with pomp,
      with sensibility, to the Pantheon of the Fatherland.[363] He and
      others: while again Mirabeau, we say, is cast forth from it,
      happily incapable of being replaced; and rests now,
      irrecognisable, reburied hastily at dead of night, in the central
      “part of the Churchyard Sainte-Catherine, in the Suburb
      Saint-Marceau,” to be disturbed no further.

      So blazes out, farseen, a Man’s Life, and becomes ashes and a
      _caput mortuum_, in this World-Pyre, which we name French
      Revolution: not the first that consumed itself there; nor, by
      thousands and many millions, the last! A man who “had swallowed
      all formulas;” who, in these strange times and circumstances,
      felt called to live Titanically, and also to die so. As he, for
      his part had swallowed all formulas, what Formula is there, never
      so comprehensive, that will express truly the _plus_ and the
      _minus_, give us the accurate net-result of him? There is
      hitherto none such. Moralities not a few must shriek condemnatory
      over this Mirabeau; the Morality by which he could be judged has
      not yet got uttered in the speech of men. We shall say this of
      him, again: That he is a Reality, and no Simulacrum: a living son
      of Nature our general Mother; not a hollow Artfice, and mechanism
      of Conventionalities, son of nothing, _brother_ to nothing. In
      which little word, let the earnest man, walking sorrowful in a
      world mostly of “Stuffed Clothes-suits,” that chatter and grin
      meaningless on him, quite _ghastly_ to the earnest soul,—think
      what significance there is!

      Of men who, in such sense, are alive, and see with eyes, the
      number is now not great: it may be well, if in this huge French
      Revolution itself, with its all-developing fury, we find some
      Three. Mortals driven rabid we find; sputtering the acridest
      logic; baring their breast to the battle-hail, their neck to the
      guillotine; of whom it is so painful to say that they too are
      still, in good part, manufactured Formalities, not Facts but
      Hearsays!

      Honour to the strong man, in these ages, who has shaken himself
      loose of shams, and is something. For in the way of being
      _worthy_, the first condition surely is that one _be_. Let Cant
      cease, at all risks and at all costs: till Cant cease, nothing
      else can begin. Of human Criminals, in these centuries, writes
      the Moralist, I find but one unforgivable: the Quack. “Hateful to
      God,” as divine Dante sings, “and to the Enemies of God,

      ‘A Dio spiacente ed a’ nemici sui!’


      But whoever will, with sympathy, which is the first essential
      towards insight, look at this questionable Mirabeau, may find
      that there lay verily in him, as the basis of all, a Sincerity, a
      great free Earnestness; nay call it Honesty, for the man did
      before all things see, with that clear flashing vision, into what
      was, into what existed as fact; and did, with his wild heart,
      follow that and no other. Whereby on what ways soever he travels
      and struggles, often enough falling, he is still a brother man.
      Hate him not; thou canst not hate him! Shining through such soil
      and tarnish, and now victorious effulgent, and oftenest
      struggling eclipsed, the light of genius itself is in this man;
      which was never yet base and hateful: but at worst was
      lamentable, loveable with pity. They say that he was ambitious,
      that he wanted to be Minister. It is most true; and was he not
      simply the one man in France who could have done any good as
      Minister? Not vanity alone, not pride alone; far from that! Wild
      burstings of affection were in this great heart; of fierce
      lightning, and soft dew of pity. So sunk, bemired in wretchedest
      defacements, it may be said of him, like the Magdalen of old,
      that he loved much: his Father the harshest of old crabbed men he
      loved with warmth, with veneration.

      Be it that his falls and follies are manifold,—as himself often
      lamented even with tears.[364] Alas, is not the Life of every
      such man already a poetic Tragedy; made up “of Fate and of one’s
      own Deservings,” of _Schicksal und eigene Schuld;_ full of the
      elements of Pity and Fear? This brother man, if not Epic for us,
      is Tragic; if not great, is large; large in his qualities,
      world-large in his destinies. Whom other men, recognising him as
      such, may, through long times, remember, and draw nigh to examine
      and consider: these, in their several dialects, will say of him
      and sing of him,—till the right thing be said; and so the Formula
      that _can_ judge him be no longer an undiscovered one.

      Here then the wild Gabriel Honoré drops from the tissue of our
      History; not without a tragic farewell. He is gone: the flower of
      the wild Riquetti or Arrighetti kindred; which seems as if in
      him, with one last effort, it had done its best, and then
      expired, or sunk down to the undistinguished level. Crabbed old
      Marquis Mirabeau, the Friend of Men, sleeps sound. The Bailli
      Mirabeau, worthy uncle, will soon die forlorn, alone.
      Barrel-Mirabeau, already gone across the Rhine, his Regiment of
      Emigrants will drive nigh desperate. “Barrel-Mirabeau,” says a
      biographer of his, “went indignantly across the Rhine, and
      drilled Emigrant Regiments. But as he sat one morning in his
      tent, sour of stomach doubtless and of heart, meditating in
      Tartarean humour on the turn things took, a certain Captain or
      Subaltern demanded admittance on business. Such Captain is
      refused; he again demands, with refusal; and then again, till
      Colonel Viscount Barrel-Mirabeau, blazing up into a mere burning
      brandy barrel, clutches his sword, and tumbles out on this
      _canaille_ of an intruder,—alas, on the _canaille_ of an
      intruder’s sword’s point, who had drawn with swift dexterity; and
      dies, and the Newspapers name it _apoplexy_ and _alarming
      accident_.” So die the Mirabeaus.

      New Mirabeaus one hears not of: the wild kindred, as we said, is
      gone out with this its greatest. As families and kindreds
      sometimes do; producing, after long ages of unnoted notability,
      some living quintescence of all the qualities they had, to flame
      forth as a man world-noted; after whom they rest as if exhausted;
      the sceptre passing to others. The chosen Last of the Mirabeaus
      is gone; the chosen man of France is gone. It was he who shook
      old France from its basis; and, as if with his single hand, has
      held it toppling there, still unfallen. What things depended on
      that one man! He is as a ship suddenly shivered on sunk rocks:
      much swims on the waste waters, far from help.


      BOOK 2.IV.
      VARENNES


      Chapter 2.4.I.
      Easter at Saint-Cloud.

      The French Monarchy may now therefore be considered as, in all
      human probability, lost; as struggling henceforth in blindness as
      well as weakness, the last light of reasonable guidance having
      gone out. What remains of resources their poor Majesties will
      waste still further, in uncertain loitering and wavering.
      Mirabeau himself had to complain that they only gave him half
      confidence, and always had some plan within his plan. Had they
      fled frankly with him, to Rouen or anywhither, long ago! They may
      fly now with chance immeasurably lessened; which will go on
      lessening towards absolute zero. Decide, O Queen; poor Louis can
      decide nothing: execute this Flight-project, or at least abandon
      it. Correspondence with Bouillé there has been enough; what
      profits consulting, and hypothesis, while all around is in fierce
      activity of practice? The Rustic sits waiting till the river run
      dry: alas with you it is not a common river, but a Nile
      Inundation; snow melting in the unseen mountains; till all, and
      you where you sit, be submerged.

      Many things invite to flight. The voice Journals invites;
      Royalist Journals proudly hinting it as a threat, Patriot
      Journals rabidly denouncing it as a terror. Mother Society,
      waxing more and more emphatic, invites;—so emphatic that, as was
      prophesied, Lafayette and your limited Patriots have ere long to
      branch off from her, and form themselves into Feuillans; with
      infinite public controversy; the victory in which, doubtful
      though it look, will remain with the _un_limited Mother.
      Moreover, ever since the Day of Poniards, we have seen unlimited
      Patriotism openly equipping itself with arms. Citizens denied
      “activity,” which is facetiously made to signify a certain weight
      of purse, cannot buy blue uniforms, and be Guardsmen; but man is
      greater than blue cloth; man can fight, if need be, in multiform
      cloth, or even almost without cloth—as Sansculotte. So Pikes
      continued to be hammered, whether those Dirks of improved
      structure with barbs be “meant for the West-India market,” or not
      meant. Men beat, the wrong way, their ploughshares into swords.
      Is there not what we may call an “Austrian Committee,” _Comité
      Autrichein_, sitting daily and nightly in the Tuileries?
      Patriotism, by vision and suspicion, knows it too well! If the
      King fly, will there not be Aristocrat-Austrian Invasion;
      butchery, replacement of Feudalism; wars more than civil? The
      hearts of men are saddened and maddened.

      Dissident Priests likewise give trouble enough. Expelled from
      their Parish Churches, where Constitutional Priests, elected by
      the Public, have replaced them, these unhappy persons resort to
      Convents of Nuns, or other such receptacles; and there, on
      Sabbath, collecting assemblages of Anti-Constitutional
      individuals, who have grown devout all on a sudden,[365] they
      worship or pretend to worship in their strait-laced contumacious
      manner; to the scandal of Patriotism. Dissident Priests, passing
      along with their sacred wafer for the dying, seem wishful to be
      massacred in the streets; wherein Patriotism will not gratify
      them. Slighter palm of martyrdom, however, shall not be denied:
      martyrdom not of massacre, yet of fustigation. At the refractory
      places of worship, Patriot men appear; Patriot women with strong
      hazel wands, which they apply. Shut thy eyes, O Reader; see not
      this misery, peculiar to these later times,—of martyrdom without
      sincerity, with only cant and contumacy! A dead Catholic Church
      is not allowed to lie dead; no, it is _galvanised_ into the
      detestablest death-life; whereat Humanity, we say, shuts its
      eyes. For the Patriot women take their hazel wands, and
      fustigate, amid laughter of bystanders, with alacrity: broad
      bottom of Priests; alas, Nuns too reversed, and _cotillons
      retroussés!_ The National Guard does what it can: Municipality
      “invokes the Principles of Toleration;” grants Dissident
      worshippers the Church of the _Théatins;_ promising protection.
      But it is to no purpose: at the door of that _Théatins;_ Church,
      appears a Placard, and suspended atop, like Plebeian Consular
      _fasces_,—a Bundle of Rods! The Principles of Toleration must do
      the best they may: but no Dissident man shall worship
      contumaciously; there is a _Plebiscitum_ to that effect; which,
      though unspoken, is like the laws of the Medes and Persians.
      Dissident contumacious Priests ought not to be harboured, even in
      private, by any man: the Club of the Cordeliers openly denounces
      Majesty himself as doing it.[366]

      Many things invite to flight: but probably this thing above all
      others, that it has become impossible! On the 15th of April,
      notice is given that his Majesty, who has suffered much from
      catarrh lately, will enjoy the Spring weather, for a few days, at
      Saint-Cloud. Out at Saint-Cloud? Wishing to celebrate his Easter,
      his _Pâques_, or Pasch, there; with refractory
      Anti-Constitutional Dissidents?—Wishing rather to make off for
      Compiègne, and thence to the Frontiers? As were, in good sooth,
      perhaps feasible, or would once have been; nothing but some two
      _chasseurs_ attending you; chasseurs easily corrupted! It is a
      pleasant possibility, execute it or not. Men say there are thirty
      thousand Chevaliers of the Poniard lurking in the woods there:
      lurking in the woods, and thirty thousand,—for the human
      Imagination is not fettered. But now, how easily might these,
      dashing out on Lafayette, snatch off the Hereditary
      Representative; and roll away with him, after the manner of a
      whirlblast, whither they listed!—Enough, it were well the King
      did not go. Lafayette is forewarned and forearmed: but, indeed,
      is the risk his only; or his and all France’s?

      Monday the eighteenth of April is come; the Easter Journey to
      Saint-Cloud shall take effect. National Guard has got its orders;
      a First Division, as Advanced Guard, has even marched, and
      probably arrived. His Majesty’s _Maison-bouche_, they say, is all
      busy stewing and frying at Saint-Cloud; the King’s Dinner not far
      from ready there. About one o’clock, the Royal Carriage, with its
      eight royal blacks, shoots stately into the Place du Carrousel;
      draws up to receive its royal burden. But hark! From the
      neighbouring Church of Saint-Roch, the tocsin begins
      ding-donging. Is the King stolen then; he is going; gone?
      Multitudes of persons crowd the Carrousel: the Royal Carriage
      still stands there;—and, by Heaven’s strength, shall stand!

      Lafayette comes up, with aide-de-camps and oratory; pervading the
      groups: ‘_Taisez vous_,’ answer the groups, ‘the King shall not
      go.’ Monsieur appears, at an upper window: ten thousand voices
      bray and shriek, ‘_Nous ne voulons pas que le Roi parte_.’ Their
      Majesties have mounted. Crack go the whips; but twenty Patriot
      arms have seized each of the eight bridles: there is rearing,
      rocking, vociferation; not the smallest headway. In vain does
      Lafayette fret, indignant; and perorate and strive: Patriots in
      the passion of terror, bellow round the Royal Carriage; it is one
      bellowing sea of Patriot terror run frantic. Will Royalty fly off
      towards Austria; like a lit rocket, towards endless Conflagration
      of Civil War? Stop it, ye Patriots, in the name of Heaven! Rude
      voices passionately apostrophise Royalty itself. Usher Campan,
      and other the like official persons, pressing forward with help
      or advice, are clutched by the sashes, and hurled and whirled, in
      a confused perilous manner; so that her Majesty has to plead
      passionately from the carriage-window.

      Order cannot be heard, cannot be followed; National Guards know
      not how to act. Centre Grenadiers, of the Observatoire Battalion,
      are there; not on duty; alas, in quasi-mutiny; speaking rude
      disobedient words; threatening the mounted Guards with sharp shot
      if they hurt the people. Lafayette mounts and dismounts; runs
      haranguing, panting; on the verge of despair. For an hour and
      three-quarters; “seven quarters of an hour,” by the Tuileries
      Clock! Desperate Lafayette will open a passage, were it by the
      cannon’s mouth, if his Majesty will order. Their Majesties,
      counselled to it by Royalist friends, by Patriot foes, dismount;
      and retire in, with heavy indignant heart; giving up the
      enterprise. _Maison-bouche_ may eat that cooked dinner
      themselves; his Majesty shall not see Saint-Cloud this day,—or
      any day.[367]

      The pathetic fable of imprisonment in one’s own Palace has become
      a sad fact, then? Majesty complains to Assembly; Municipality
      deliberates, proposes to petition or address; Sections respond
      with sullen brevity of negation. Lafayette flings down his
      Commission; appears in civic pepper-and-salt frock; and cannot be
      flattered back again;—not in less than three days; and by
      unheard-of entreaty; National Guards kneeling to him, and
      declaring that it is not sycophancy, that they are free men
      kneeling here to the _Statue of Liberty_. For the rest, those
      Centre Grenadiers of the Observatoire are disbanded,—yet indeed
      are reinlisted, all but fourteen, under a new name, and with new
      quarters. The King must keep his Easter in Paris: meditating much
      on this singular posture of things: but as good as determined now
      to fly from it, desire being whetted by difficulty.


      Chapter 2.4.II.
      Easter at Paris.

      For above a year, ever since March 1790, it would seem, there has
      hovered a project of Flight before the royal mind; and ever and
      anon has been condensing itself into something like a purpose;
      but this or the other difficulty always vaporised it again. It
      seems so full of risks, perhaps of civil war itself; above all,
      it cannot be done without effort. Somnolent laziness will not
      serve: to fly, if not in a leather _vache_, one must verily stir
      himself. Better to adopt that Constitution of theirs; execute it
      so as to shew all men that it is inexecutable? Better or not so
      good; surely it is _easier_. To all difficulties you need only
      say, There is a lion in the path, behold your Constitution will
      not act! For a somnolent person it requires no effort to
      counterfeit death,—as Dame de Staël and Friends of Liberty can
      see the King’s Government long doing, _faisant le mort_.

      Nay now, when desire whetted by difficulty has brought the matter
      to a head, and the royal mind no longer halts between two, what
      can come of it? Grant that poor Louis were safe with Bouillé,
      what on the whole could he look for there? Exasperated Tickets of
      Entry answer, Much, all. But cold Reason answers, Little almost
      nothing. Is not loyalty a law of Nature? ask the Tickets of
      Entry. Is not love of your King, and even death for him, the
      glory of all Frenchmen,—except these few Democrats? Let Democrat
      Constitution-builders see what they will do without their
      Keystone; and France rend its hair, having lost the Hereditary
      Representative!

      Thus will King Louis fly; one sees not reasonably towards what.
      As a maltreated Boy, shall we say, who, having a Stepmother,
      rushes sulky into the wide world; and will wring the paternal
      heart?—Poor Louis escapes from known unsupportable evils, to an
      unknown mixture of good and evil, coloured by Hope. He goes, as
      Rabelais did when dying, to seek a great May-be: _je vais
      chercher un grand Peut-être!_ As not only the sulky Boy but the
      wise grown Man is obliged to do, so often, in emergencies.

      For the rest, there is still no lack of stimulants, and stepdame
      maltreatments, to keep one’s resolution at the due pitch.
      Factious disturbance ceases not: as indeed how can they, unless
      authoritatively _conjured_, in a Revolt which is by nature
      bottomless? If the ceasing of faction be the price of the King’s
      somnolence, he may awake when he will, and take wing.

      Remark, in any case, what somersets and contortions a dead
      Catholicism is making,—skilfully galvanised: hideous, and even
      piteous, to behold! Jurant and Dissident, with their shaved
      crowns, argue frothing everywhere; or are ceasing to argue, and
      stripping for battle. In Paris was scourging while need
      continued: contrariwise, in the Morbihan of Brittany, without
      scourging, armed Peasants are up, roused by pulpit-drum, they
      know not why. General Dumouriez, who has got missioned
      thitherward, finds all in sour heat of darkness; finds also that
      explanation and conciliation will still do much.[368]

      But again, consider this: that his Holiness, Pius Sixth, has seen
      good to excommunicate Bishop Talleyrand! Surely, we will say
      then, considering it, there is no living or dead Church in the
      Earth that has not the indubitablest right to excommunicate
      Talleyrand. Pope Pius has right and might, in his way. But truly
      so likewise has Father Adam, _ci-devant_ Marquis Saint-Huruge, in
      his way. Behold, therefore, on the Fourth of May, in the
      Palais-Royal, a mixed loud-sounding multitude; in the middle of
      whom, Father Adam, bull-voiced Saint-Huruge, in white hat, towers
      visible and audible. With him, it is said, walks Journalist
      Gorsas, walk many others of the washed sort; for no authority
      will interfere. Pius Sixth, with his plush and tiara, and power
      of the Keys, they bear aloft: of natural size,—made of lath and
      combustible gum. Royou, the King’s Friend, is borne too in
      effigy; with a pile of Newspaper _King’s-Friends_, condemned
      numbers of the _Ami-du-Roi;_ fit fuel of the sacrifice. Speeches
      are spoken; a judgment is held, a doom proclaimed, audible in
      bull-voice, towards the four winds. And thus, amid great
      shouting, the holocaust is consummated, under the summer sky; and
      our lath-and-gum Holiness, with the attendant victims, mounts up
      in flame, and sinks down in ashes; a decomposed Pope: and right
      or might, among all the parties, has better or worse accomplished
      itself, as it could.[369] But, on the whole, reckoning from
      Martin Luther in the Marketplace of Wittenberg to Marquis
      Saint-Huruge in this Palais-Royal of Paris, what a journey have
      we gone; into what strange territories has it carried us! No
      Authority can now interfere. Nay Religion herself, mourning for
      such things, may after all ask, What have _I_ to do with them?

      In such extraordinary manner does dead Catholicism somerset and
      caper, skilfully galvanised. For, does the reader inquire into
      the subject-matter of controversy in this case; what the
      difference between Orthodoxy or _My-doxy_ and Heterodoxy or
      _Thy-doxy_ might here be? My-doxy is that an august National
      Assembly can equalize the extent of Bishopricks; that an
      equalized Bishop, his Creed and Formularies being left quite as
      they were, can swear Fidelity to King, Law and Nation, and so
      become a Constitutional Bishop. Thy-doxy, if thou be Dissident,
      is that he cannot; but that he must become an accursed thing.
      Human ill-nature needs but some Homoiousian _iota_, or even the
      pretence of one; and will flow copiously through the eye of a
      needle: thus always must mortals go jargoning and fuming,

     And, like the ancient Stoics in their porches
     With fierce dispute maintain their churches.


      This _Auto-da-fé_ of Saint-Huruge’s was on the Fourth of May,
      1791. Royalty sees it; but says nothing.


      Chapter 2.4.III.
      Count Fersen.

      Royalty, in fact, should, by this time, be far on with its
      preparations. Unhappily much preparation is needful: could a
      Hereditary Representative be carried in leather _vache_, how easy
      were it! But it is not so.

      New clothes are needed, as usual, in all Epic transactions, were
      it in the grimmest iron ages; consider “Queen Chrimhilde, with
      her sixty semstresses,” in that iron _Nibelungen Song!_ No Queen
      can stir without new clothes. Therefore, now, Dame Campan whisks
      assiduous to this mantua-maker and to that: and there is clipping
      of frocks and gowns, upper clothes and under, great and small;
      such a clipping and sewing, as might have been dispensed with.
      Moreover, her Majesty cannot go a step anywhither without her
      _Nécessaire;_ dear _Nécessaire_, of inlaid ivory and rosewood;
      cunningly devised; which holds perfumes, toilet-implements,
      infinite small queenlike furnitures: Necessary to terrestrial
      life. Not without a cost of some five hundred louis, of much
      precious time, and difficult hoodwinking which does not blind,
      can this same Necessary of life be forwarded by the Flanders
      Carriers,—never to get to hand.[370] All which, you would say,
      augurs ill for the prospering of the enterprise. But the whims of
      women and queens must be humoured.

      Bouillé, on his side, is making a fortified Camp at Montmédi;
      gathering Royal-Allemand, and all manner of other German and true
      French Troops thither, “to watch the Austrians.” His Majesty will
      not cross the Frontiers, unless on compulsion. Neither shall the
      Emigrants be much employed, hateful as they are to all
      people.[371] Nor shall old war-god Broglie have any hand in the
      business; but solely our brave Bouillé; to whom, on the day of
      meeting, a Marshal’s Baton shall be delivered, by a rescued King,
      amid the shouting of all the troops. In the meanwhile, Paris
      being so suspicious, were it not perhaps good to write your
      Foreign Ambassadors an ostensible Constitutional Letter; desiring
      all Kings and men to take heed that King Louis loves the
      Constitution, that he has voluntarily sworn, and does again
      swear, to maintain the same, and will reckon those his enemies
      who affect to say otherwise? Such a Constitutional circular is
      despatched by Couriers, is communicated confidentially to the
      Assembly, and printed in all Newspapers; with the finest
      effect.[372] Simulation and dissimulation mingle extensively in
      human affairs.

      We observe, however, that Count Fersen is often using his Ticket
      of Entry; which surely he has clear right to do. A gallant
      Soldier and Swede, devoted to this fair Queen;—as indeed the
      Highest Swede now is. Has not King Gustav, famed fiery _Chevalier
      du Nord_, sworn himself, by the old laws of chivalry, her Knight?
      He will descend on fire-wings, of Swedish musketry, and deliver
      her from these foul dragons,—if, alas, the assassin’s pistol
      intervene not!

      But, in fact, Count Fersen does seem a likely young soldier, of
      alert decisive ways: he circulates widely, seen, unseen; and has
      business on hand. Also Colonel the Duke de Choiseul, nephew of
      Choiseul the great, of Choiseul the now deceased; he and Engineer
      Goguelat are passing and repassing between Metz and the
      Tuileries; and Letters go in cipher,—one of them, a most
      important one, hard to _de_cipher; Fersen having ciphered it in
      haste.[373] As for Duke de Villequier, he is gone ever since the
      Day of Poniards; but his Apartment is useful for her Majesty.

      On the other side, poor Commandment Gouvion, watching at the
      Tuileries, second in National Command, sees several things hard
      to interpret. It is the same Gouvion who sat, long months ago, at
      the Townhall, gazing helpless into that Insurrection of Women;
      motionless, as the brave stabled steed when conflagration rises,
      till Usher Maillard snatched his drum. Sincerer Patriot there is
      not; but many a shiftier. He, if Dame Campan gossip credibly, is
      paying some similitude of love-court to a certain false
      Chambermaid of the Palace, who betrays much to him: the
      _Nécessaire_, the clothes, the packing of the jewels,[374]—could
      he understand it when betrayed. Helpless Gouvion gazes with
      sincere glassy eyes into it; stirs up his sentries to vigilence;
      walks restless to and fro; and hopes the best.

      But, on the whole, one finds that, in the second week of June,
      Colonel de Choiseul is privately in Paris; having come “to see
      his children.” Also that Fersen has got a stupendous new Coach
      built, of the kind named _Berline;_ done by the first artists;
      according to a model: they bring it home to him, in Choiseul’s
      presence; the two friends take a proof-drive in it, along the
      streets; in meditative mood; then send it up to “Madame
      Sullivan’s, in the Rue de Clichy,” far North, to wait there till
      wanted. Apparently a certain Russian Baroness de Korff, with
      Waiting-woman, Valet, and two Children, will travel homewards
      with some state: in whom these young military gentlemen take
      interest? A Passport has been procured for her; and much
      assistance shewn, with Coach-builders and such like;—so helpful
      polite are young military men. Fersen has likewise purchased a
      Chaise fit for two, at least for two waiting-maids; further,
      certain necessary horses: one would say, he is himself quitting
      France, not without outlay? We observe finally that their
      Majesties, Heaven willing, will assist at _Corpus-Christi Day_,
      this blessed Summer Solstice, in Assumption Church, here at
      Paris, to the joy of all the world. For which same day, moreover,
      brave Bouillé, at Metz, as we find, has invited a party of
      friends to dinner; but indeed is gone from home, in the interim,
      over to Montmédi.

      These are of the Phenomena, or visual Appearances, of this
      wide-working terrestrial world: which truly is all phenomenal,
      what they call spectral; and never rests at any moment; one never
      at any moment can know why.

      On Monday night, the Twentieth of June 1791, about eleven
      o’clock, there is many a hackney-coach, and glass-coach
      (_carrosse de remise_), still rumbling, or at rest, on the
      streets of Paris. But of all Glass-coaches, we recommend this to
      thee, O Reader, which stands drawn up, in the Rue de l’Echelle,
      hard by the Carrousel and outgate of the Tuileries; in the Rue de
      l’Echelle that then was; “opposite Ronsin the saddler’s door,” as
      if waiting for a fare there! Not long does it wait: a hooded
      Dame, with two hooded Children has issued from Villequier’s door,
      where no sentry walks, into the Tuileries Court-of-Princes; into
      the Carrousel; into the Rue de l’Echelle; where the
      Glass-coachman readily admits them; and again waits. Not long;
      another Dame, likewise hooded or shrouded, leaning on a servant,
      issues in the same manner, by the Glass-coachman, cheerfully
      admitted. Whither go, so many Dames? ’Tis His Majesty’s
      _Couchée_, Majesty just gone to bed, and all the Palace-world is
      retiring home. But the Glass-coachman still waits; his fare
      seemingly incomplete.

      By and by, we note a thickset Individual, in round hat and
      peruke, arm-and-arm with some servant, seemingly of the Runner or
      Courier sort; he also issues through Villequier’s door; starts a
      shoebuckle as he passes one of the sentries, stoops down to clasp
      it again; is however, by the Glass-coachman, still more
      cheerfully admitted. And _now_, is his fare complete? Not yet;
      the Glass-coachman still waits.—Alas! and the false Chambermaid
      has warned Gouvion that she thinks the Royal Family will fly this
      very night; and Gouvion distrusting his own glazed eyes, has sent
      express for Lafayette; and Lafayette’s Carriage, flaring with
      lights, rolls this moment through the inner Arch of the
      Carrousel,—where a Lady shaded in broad gypsy-hat, and leaning on
      the arm of a servant, also of the Runner or Courier sort, stands
      aside to let it pass, and has even the whim to touch a spoke of
      it with her _badine_,—light little magic rod which she calls
      _badine_, such as the Beautiful then wore. The flare of
      Lafayette’s Carriage, rolls past: all is found quiet in the
      Court-of-Princes; sentries at their post; Majesties’ Apartments
      closed in smooth rest. Your false Chambermaid must have been
      mistaken? Watch thou, Gouvion, with Argus’ vigilance; for, of a
      truth, treachery is within these walls.

      But where is the Lady that stood aside in gypsy hat, and touched
      the wheel-spoke with her _badine?_ O Reader, that Lady that
      touched the wheel-spoke was the Queen of France! She has issued
      safe through that inner Arch, into the Carrousel itself; but not
      into the Rue de l’Echelle. Flurried by the rattle and rencounter,
      she took the right hand not the left; neither she nor her Courier
      knows Paris; he indeed is no Courier, but a loyal stupid
      _ci-devant_ Bodyguard disguised as one. They are off, quite
      wrong, over the Pont Royal and River; roaming disconsolate in the
      Rue du Bac; far from the Glass-coachman, who still waits. Waits,
      with flutter of heart; with thoughts—which he must button close
      up, under his jarvie surtout!

      Midnight clangs from all the City-steeples; one precious hour has
      been spent so; most mortals are asleep. The Glass-coachman waits;
      and what mood! A brother jarvie drives up, enters into
      conversation; is answered cheerfully in jarvie dialect: the
      brothers of the whip exchange a pinch of snuff;[375] decline
      drinking together; and part with good night. Be the Heavens
      blest! here at length is the Queen-lady, in gypsy-hat; safe after
      perils; who has had to inquire her way. She too is admitted; her
      Courier jumps aloft, as the other, who is also a disguised
      Bodyguard, has done: and now, O Glass-coachman of a
      thousand,—Count Fersen, for the Reader sees it is thou,—drive!

      Dust shall not stick to the hoofs of Fersen: crack! crack! the
      Glass-coach rattles, and every soul breathes lighter. But is
      Fersen on the right road? Northeastward, to the Barrier of
      Saint-Martin and Metz Highway, thither were we bound: and lo, he
      drives right Northward! The royal Individual, in round hat and
      peruke, sits astonished; but right or wrong, there is no remedy.
      Crack, crack, we go incessant, through the slumbering City.
      Seldom, since Paris rose out of mud, or the Longhaired Kings went
      in Bullock-carts, was there such a drive. Mortals on each hand of
      you, close by, stretched out horizontal, dormant; and we alive
      and quaking! Crack, crack, through the Rue de Grammont; across
      the Boulevard; up the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin,—these windows,
      all silent, of Number 42, were Mirabeau’s. Towards the Barrier
      not of Saint-Martin, but of Clichy on the utmost North! Patience,
      ye royal Individuals; Fersen understands what he is about.
      Passing up the Rue de Clichy, he alights for one moment at Madame
      Sullivan’s: ‘Did Count Fersen’s Coachman get the Baroness de
      Korff’s new Berline?’—‘Gone with it an hour-and-half ago,’
      grumbles responsive the drowsy Porter.—‘_C’est bien_.’ Yes, it is
      well;—though had not such hour-and half been _lost_, it were
      still better. Forth therefore, O Fersen, fast, by the Barrier de
      Clichy; then Eastward along the Outward Boulevard, what horses
      and whipcord can do!

      Thus Fersen drives, through the ambrosial night. Sleeping Paris
      is now all on the right hand of him; silent except for some
      snoring hum; and now he is Eastward as far as the Barrier de
      Saint-Martin; looking earnestly for Baroness de Korff’s Berline.
      This Heaven’s Berline he at length does descry, drawn up with its
      six horses, his own German Coachman waiting on the box. Right,
      thou good German: now haste, whither thou knowest!—And as for us
      of the Glass-coach, haste too, O haste; much time is already
      lost! The august Glass-coach fare, six Insides, hastily packs
      itself into the new Berline; two Bodyguard Couriers behind. The
      Glass-coach itself is turned adrift, its head towards the City;
      to wander whither it lists,—and be found next morning tumbled in
      a ditch. But Fersen is on the new box, with its brave new
      hammer-cloths; flourishing his whip; he bolts forward towards
      Bondy. There a third and final Bodyguard Courier of ours ought
      surely to be, with post-horses ready-ordered. There likewise
      ought that purchased Chaise, with the two Waiting-maids and their
      bandboxes to be; whom also her Majesty could not travel without.
      Swift, thou deft Fersen, and may the Heavens turn it well!

      Once more, by Heaven’s blessing, it is all well. Here is the
      sleeping Hamlet of Bondy; Chaise with Waiting-women; horses all
      ready, and postillions with their churn-boots, impatient in the
      dewy dawn. Brief harnessing done, the postillions with their
      churn-boots vault into the saddles; brandish circularly their
      little noisy whips. Fersen, under his jarvie-surtout, bends in
      lowly silent reverence of adieu; royal hands wave speechless in
      expressible response; Baroness de Korff’s Berline, with the
      Royalty of France, bounds off: for ever, as it proved. Deft
      Fersen dashes obliquely Northward, through the country, towards
      Bougret; gains Bougret, finds his German Coachman and chariot
      waiting there; cracks off, and drives undiscovered into unknown
      space. A deft active man, we say; what he undertook to do is
      nimbly and successfully done.

      And so the Royalty of France is actually fled? This precious
      night, the shortest of the year, it flies and drives! _Baroness
      de Korff_ is, at bottom, Dame de Tourzel, Governess of the Royal
      Children: she who came hooded with the two hooded little ones;
      little Dauphin; little Madame Royale, known long afterwards as
      Duchess d’Angouleme. Baroness de Korff’s _Waiting-maid_ is the
      Queen in gypsy-hat. The royal Individual in round hat and peruke,
      he is _Valet_, for the time being. That other hooded Dame, styled
      _Travelling-companion_, is kind Sister Elizabeth; she had sworn,
      long since, when the Insurrection of Women was, that only death
      should part her and them. And so they rush there, not too
      impetuously, through the Wood of Bondy:—over a Rubicon in their
      own and France’s History.

      Great; though the future is all vague! If we reach Bouillé? If we
      do not reach him? O Louis! and this all round thee is the great
      slumbering Earth (and overhead, the great watchful Heaven); the
      slumbering Wood of Bondy,—where Longhaired Childeric Donothing
      was struck through with iron;[376] not unreasonably. These peaked
      stone-towers are Raincy; towers of wicked d’Orléans. All slumbers
      save the multiplex rustle of our new Berline. Loose-skirted
      scarecrow of an Herb-merchant, with his ass and early greens,
      toilsomely plodding, seems the only creature we meet. But right
      ahead the great North-East sends up evermore his gray brindled
      dawn: from dewy branch, birds here and there, with short deep
      warble, salute the coming Sun. Stars fade out, and Galaxies;
      Street-lamps of the City of God. The Universe, O my brothers, is
      flinging wide its portals for the Levee of the GREAT HIGH KING.
      Thou, poor King Louis, farest nevertheless, as mortals do,
      towards Orient lands of Hope; and the Tuileries with _its_
      Levees, and France and the Earth itself, is but a larger kind of
      doghutch,—occasionally going rabid.


      Chapter 2.4.IV.
      Attitude.

      But in Paris, at six in the morning; when some Patriot Deputy,
      warned by a billet, awoke Lafayette, and they went to the
      Tuileries?—Imagination may paint, but words cannot, the surprise
      of Lafayette; or with what bewilderment helpless Gouvion rolled
      glassy Argus’s eyes, discerning now that his false Chambermaid
      told true!

      However, it is to be recorded that Paris, thanks to an august
      National Assembly, did, on this seeming doomsday, surpass itself.
      Never, according to Historian eye-witnesses, was there seen such
      an “imposing attitude.”[377] Sections all “in permanence;” our
      Townhall, too, having first, about ten o’clock, fired three
      solemn alarm-cannons: above all, our National Assembly! National
      Assembly, likewise permanent, decides what is needful; with
      unanimous consent, for the _Côté Droit_ sits dumb, afraid of the
      Lanterne. Decides with a calm promptitude, which rises towards
      the sublime. One must needs vote, for the thing is self-evident,
      that his Majesty has been _abducted_, or spirited away,
      “_enlevé_,” by some person or persons unknown: in which case,
      what will the Constitution have us do? Let us return to first
      principles, as we always say; ‘_revenons aux principes_.’

      By first or by second principles, much is promptly decided:
      Ministers are sent for, instructed how to continue their
      functions; Lafayette is examined; and Gouvion, who gives a most
      helpless account, the best he can. Letters are found written: one
      Letter, of immense magnitude; all in his Majesty’s hand, and
      evidently of his Majesty’s own composition; addressed to the
      National Assembly. It details, with earnestness, with a childlike
      simplicity, what woes his Majesty has suffered. Woes great and
      small: A Necker seen applauded, a Majesty not; then insurrection;
      want of due cash in Civil List; _general_ want of cash, furniture
      and order; anarchy everywhere; Deficit never yet, in the
      smallest, “choked or _comblé:_”—wherefore in brief His Majesty
      has retired towards a Place of Liberty; and, leaving Sanctions,
      Federation, and what Oaths there may be, to shift for themselves,
      does now refer—to what, thinks an august Assembly? To that
      “Declaration of the Twenty-third of June,” with its ‘_Seul il
      fera_, He alone will make his People happy.’ As if _that_ were
      not buried, deep enough, under two irrevocable Twelvemonths, and
      the wreck and rubbish of a whole Feudal World! This strange
      autograph Letter the National Assembly decides on printing; on
      transmitting to the Eighty-three Departments, with exegetic
      commentary, short but pithy. Commissioners also shall go forth on
      all sides; the People be exhorted; the Armies be increased; care
      taken that the Commonweal suffer no damage.—And now, with a
      sublime air of calmness, nay of indifference, we “pass to the
      order of the day!”

      By such sublime calmness, the terror of the People is calmed.
      These gleaming Pike forests, which bristled fateful in the early
      sun, disappear again; the far-sounding Street-orators cease, or
      spout milder. We are to have a civil war; let us have it then.
      The King is gone; but National Assembly, but France and we
      remain. The People also takes a great attitude; the People also
      is calm; motionless as a couchant lion. With but a few
      _broolings_, some waggings of the tail; to shew what it _will_
      do! Cazalès, for instance, was beset by street-groups, and cries
      of _Lanterne;_ but National Patrols easily delivered him.
      Likewise all King’s effigies and statues, at least stucco ones,
      get abolished. Even King’s names; the word Roi fades suddenly out
      of all shop-signs; the Royal Bengal Tiger itself, on the
      Boulevards, becomes the National Bengal one, _Tigre
      National_.[378]

      How great is a calm couchant People! On the morrow, men will say
      to one another: ‘We have no King, yet we slept sound enough.’ On
      the morrow, fervent Achille de Chatelet, and Thomas Paine the
      rebellious Needleman, shall have the walls of Paris profusely
      plastered with their Placard; announcing that there must be a
      _Republic!_[379]—Need we add that Lafayette too, though at first
      menaced by Pikes, has taken a great attitude, or indeed the
      greatest of all? Scouts and Aides-de-camp fly forth, vague, in
      quest and pursuit; young Romœuf towards Valenciennes, though with
      small hope.

      Thus Paris; sublimely calmed, in its bereavement. But from the
      _Messageries Royales_, in all Mail-bags, radiates forth
      far-darting the electric news: Our Hereditary Representative is
      flown. Laugh, black Royalists: yet be it in your sleeve only;
      lest Patriotism notice, and waxing frantic, lower the Lanterne!
      In Paris alone is a sublime National Assembly with its calmness;
      truly, other places must take it as they can: with open mouth and
      eyes; with panic cackling, with wrath, with conjecture. How each
      one of those dull leathern Diligences, with its leathern bag and
      “The King is fled,” furrows up smooth France as it goes; through
      town and hamlet, ruffles the smooth public mind into quivering
      agitation of death-terror; then lumbers on, as if nothing had
      happened! Along all highways; towards the utmost borders; till
      all France is ruffled,—roughened up (metaphorically speaking)
      into one enormous, desperate-minded, red-guggling Turkey Cock!

      For example, it is under cloud of night that the leathern Monster
      reaches Nantes; deep sunk in sleep. The word spoken rouses all
      Patriot men: General Dumouriez, enveloped in roquelaures, has to
      descend from his bedroom; finds the street covered with “four or
      five thousand citizens in their shirts.”[380] Here and there a
      faint farthing rushlight, hastily kindled; and so many
      swart-featured haggard faces, with nightcaps pushed back; and the
      more or less flowing drapery of night-shirt: open-mouthed till
      the General say his word! And overhead, as always, the Great Bear
      is turning so quiet round Boötes; steady, indifferent as the
      leathern Diligence itself. Take comfort, ye men of Nantes: Boötes
      and the steady Bear are turning; ancient Atlantic still sends his
      brine, loud-billowing, up your Loire-stream; brandy shall be hot
      in the stomach: this is not the Last of the Days, but one before
      the Last.—The fools! If they knew what was doing, in these very
      instants, also by candle-light, in the far North-East!

      Perhaps we may say the most terrified man in Paris or France
      is—who thinks the Reader?—seagreen Robespierre. Double paleness,
      with the shadow of gibbets and halters, overcasts the seagreen
      features: it is too clear to him that there is to be “a
      Saint-Bartholomew of Patriots,” that in four-and-twenty hours he
      will not be in life. These horrid anticipations of the soul he is
      heard uttering at Pétion’s; by a notable witness. By Madame
      Roland, namely; her whom we saw, last year, radiant at the Lyons
      Federation! These four months, the Rolands have been in Paris;
      arranging with Assembly Committees the Municipal affairs of
      Lyons, affairs all sunk in debt;—communing, the while, as was
      most natural, with the best Patriots to be found here, with our
      Brissots, Pétions, Buzots, Robespierres; who were wont to come to
      us, says the fair Hostess, four evenings in the week. They,
      running about, busier than ever this day, would fain have
      comforted the seagreen man: spake of Achille du Chatelet’s
      Placard; of a Journal to be called _The Republican;_ of preparing
      men’s minds for a Republic. ‘A Republic?’ said the Seagreen, with
      one of his dry husky _un_sportful laughs, ‘What is that?’[381] O
      seagreen Incorruptible, thou shalt see!


      Chapter 2.4.V.
      The New Berline.

      But scouts all this while and aide-de-camps, have flown forth
      faster than the leathern Diligences. Young Romœuf, as we said,
      was off early towards Valenciennes: distracted Villagers seize
      him, as a traitor with a finger of his own in the plot; drag him
      back to the Townhall; to the National Assembly, which speedily
      grants a new passport. Nay now, that same scarecrow of an
      Herb-merchant with his ass has bethought him of the grand new
      Berline seen in the Wood of Bondy; and delivered evidence of
      it:[382] Romœuf, furnished with new passport, is sent forth with
      double speed on a hopefuller track; by Bondy, Claye, and Châlons,
      towards Metz, to track the new Berline; and gallops _à franc
      étrier_.

      Miserable new Berline! Why could not Royalty go in some old
      Berline similar to that of other men? Flying for life, one does
      not stickle about his vehicle. Monsieur, in a commonplace
      travelling-carriage is off Northwards; Madame, his Princess, in
      another, with variation of route: they cross one another while
      changing horses, without look of recognition; and reach Flanders,
      no man questioning them. Precisely in the same manner, beautiful
      Princess de Lamballe set off, about the same hour; and will reach
      England safe:—would she had continued there! The beautiful, the
      good, but the unfortunate; reserved for a frightful end!

      All runs along, unmolested, speedy, except only the new Berline.
      Huge leathern vehicle;—huge Argosy, let us say, or Acapulco-ship;
      with its heavy stern-boat of Chaise-and-pair; with its three
      yellow Pilot-boats of mounted Bodyguard Couriers, rocking aimless
      round it and ahead of it, to bewilder, not to guide! It lumbers
      along, lurchingly with stress, at a snail’s pace; noted of all
      the world. The Bodyguard Couriers, in their yellow liveries, go
      prancing and clattering; loyal but stupid; unacquainted with all
      things. Stoppages occur; and breakages to be repaired at Etoges.
      King Louis too will dismount, will walk up hills, and enjoy the
      blessed sunshine:—with eleven horses and double drink money, and
      all furtherances of Nature and Art, it will be found that
      Royalty, flying for life, accomplishes Sixty-nine miles in
      Twenty-two incessant hours. Slow Royalty! And yet not a minute of
      these hours but is precious: on minutes hang the destinies of
      Royalty now.

      Readers, therefore, can judge in what humour Duke de Choiseul
      might stand waiting, in the Village of Pont-de-Sommevelle, some
      leagues beyond Chalons, hour after hour, now when the day bends
      visibly westward. Choiseul drove out of Paris, in all privity,
      ten hours before their Majesties’ fixed time; his Hussars, led by
      Engineer Goguelat, are here duly, come “to escort a Treasure that
      is expected:” but, hour after hour, is no Baroness de Korff’s
      Berline. Indeed, over all that North-east Region, on the skirts
      of Champagne and of Lorraine, where the Great Road runs, the
      agitation is considerable. For all along, from this
      Pont-de-Sommevelle Northeastward as far as Montmédi, at
      Post-villages and Towns, escorts of Hussars and Dragoons do
      lounge waiting: a train or chain of Military Escorts; at the
      Montmédi end of it our brave Bouillé: an electric thunder-chain;
      which the invisible Bouillé, like a Father Jove, holds in his
      hand—for wise purposes! Brave Bouillé has done what man could;
      has spread out his electric thunder-chain of Military Escorts,
      onwards to the threshold of Chalons: it waits but for the new
      Korff Berline; to receive it, escort it, and, if need be, bear it
      off in whirlwind of military fire. They lie and lounge there, we
      say, these fierce Troopers; from Montmédi and Stenai, through
      Clermont, Sainte-Menehould to utmost Pont-de-Sommevelle, in all
      Post-villages; for the route shall avoid Verdun and great Towns:
      they loiter impatient “till the Treasure arrive.”

      Judge what a day this is for brave Bouillé: perhaps the first day
      of a new glorious life; surely the last day of the old! Also, and
      indeed still more, what a day, beautiful and terrible, for your
      young full-blooded Captains: your Dandoins, Comte de Damas, Duke
      de Choiseul, Engineer Goguelat, and the like; entrusted with the
      secret!—Alas, the day bends ever more westward; and no Korff
      Berline comes to sight. It is four hours beyond the time, and
      still no Berline. In all Village-streets, Royalist Captains go
      lounging, looking often Paris-ward; with face of unconcern, with
      heart full of black care: rigorous Quartermasters can hardly keep
      the private dragoons from _cafés_ and dramshops.[383] Dawn on our
      bewilderment, thou new Berline; dawn on us, thou Sun-chariot of a
      new Berline, with the destinies of France!

      It was of His Majesty’s ordering, this military array of Escorts:
      a thing solacing the Royal imagination with a look of security
      and rescue; yet, in reality, creating only alarm, and where there
      was otherwise no danger, danger without end. For each Patriot, in
      these Post-villages, asks naturally: This clatter of cavalry, and
      marching and lounging of troops, what means it? To escort a
      Treasure? Why escort, when no Patriot will steal from the Nation;
      or where is your Treasure?—There has been such marching and
      counter-marching: for it is another fatality, that certain of
      these Military Escorts came out so early as yesterday; the
      Nineteenth not the Twentieth of the month being the day _first_
      appointed, which her Majesty, for some necessity or other, saw
      good to alter. And now consider the suspicious nature of
      Patriotism; suspicious, above all, of Bouillé the Aristocrat; and
      how the sour doubting humour has had leave to accumulate and
      exacerbate for four-and-twenty hours!

      At Pont-de-Sommevelle, these Forty foreign Hussars of Goguelat
      and Duke Choiseul are becoming an unspeakable mystery to all men.
      They lounged long enough, already, at Sainte-Menehould; lounged
      and loitered till our National Volunteers there, all risen into
      hot wrath of doubt, “demanded three hundred fusils of their
      Townhall,” and got them. At which same moment too, as it chanced,
      our Captain Dandoins was just coming in, from Clermont with _his_
      troop, at the other end of the Village. A fresh troop; alarming
      enough; though happily they are only Dragoons and French! So that
      Goguelat with his Hussars had to ride, and even to do it fast;
      till here at Pont-de-Sommevelle, where Choiseul lay waiting, he
      found resting-place. Resting-place, as on burning marle. For the
      rumour of him flies abroad; and men run to and fro in fright and
      anger: Chalons sends forth exploratory pickets, coming from
      Sainte-Menehould, on that. What is it, ye whiskered Hussars, men
      of foreign guttural speech; in the name of Heaven, what is it
      that brings you? A Treasure?—exploratory pickets shake their
      heads. The hungry Peasants, however, know too well what Treasure
      it is: Military seizure for rents, feudalities; which no Bailiff
      could make us pay! This they know;—and set to jingling their
      Parish-bell by way of tocsin; with rapid effect! Choiseul and
      Goguelat, if the whole country is not to take fire, must needs,
      be there Berline, be there no Berline, saddle and ride.

      They mount; and this Parish tocsin happily ceases. They ride
      slowly Eastward, towards Sainte-Menehould; still hoping the
      Sun-Chariot of a Berline may overtake them. Ah me, no Berline!
      And near now is that Sainte-Menehould, which expelled us in the
      morning, with its “three hundred National fusils;” which looks,
      belike, not too lovingly on Captain Dandoins and his fresh
      Dragoons, though only French;—which, in a word, one dare not
      enter the _second_ time, under pain of explosion! With rather
      heavy heart, our Hussar Party strikes off to the left; through
      byways, through pathless hills and woods, they, avoiding
      Sainte-Menehould and all places which have seen them heretofore,
      will make direct for the distant Village of Varennes. It is
      probable they will have a rough evening-ride.

      This first military post, therefore, in the long thunder-chain,
      has gone off with no effect; or with worse, and your chain
      threatens to entangle itself!—The Great Road, however, is got
      hushed again into a kind of quietude, though one of the
      wakefullest. Indolent Dragoons cannot, by any Quartermaster, be
      kept altogether from the dramshop; where Patriots drink, and will
      even treat, eager enough for news. Captains, in a state near
      distraction, beat the dusky highway, with a face of indifference;
      and no Sun-Chariot appears. Why lingers it? Incredible, that with
      eleven horses and such yellow Couriers and furtherances, its rate
      should be under the weightiest dray-rate, some three miles an
      hour! Alas, one knows not whether it ever even got out of
      Paris;—and yet also one knows not whether, this very moment, it
      is not at the Village-end! One’s heart flutters on the verge of
      unutterabilities.


      Chapter 2.4.VI.
      Old-Dragoon Drouet.

      In this manner, however, has the Day bent downwards. Wearied
      mortals are creeping home from their field-labour; the
      village-artisan eats with relish his supper of herbs, or has
      strolled forth to the village-street for a sweet mouthful of air
      and human news. Still summer-eventide everywhere! The great Sun
      hangs flaming on the utmost North-West; for it is his longest day
      this year. The hill-tops rejoicing will ere long be at their
      ruddiest, and blush Good-night. The thrush, in green dells, on
      long-shadowed leafy spray, pours gushing his glad serenade, to
      the babble of brooks grown audibler; silence is stealing over the
      Earth. Your dusty Mill of Valmy, as all other mills and
      drudgeries, may furl its canvass, and cease swashing and
      circling. The swenkt grinders in this Treadmill of an Earth have
      ground out another Day; and lounge there, as we say, in
      village-groups; movable, or ranked on social stone-seats;[384]
      their children, mischievous imps, sporting about their feet.
      Unnotable hum of sweet human gossip rises from this Village of
      Sainte-Menehould, as from all other villages. Gossip mostly
      sweet, unnotable; for the very Dragoons are French and gallant;
      nor as yet has the Paris-and-Verdun Diligence, with its leathern
      bag, rumbled in, to terrify the minds of men.

      One figure nevertheless we do note at the last door of the
      Village: that figure in loose-flowing nightgown, of Jean Baptiste
      Drouet, Master of the Post here. An acrid choleric man, rather
      dangerous-looking; still in the prime of life, though he has
      served, in his time as a Condé Dragoon. This day from an early
      hour, Drouet got his choler stirred, and has been kept fretting.
      Hussar Goguelat in the morning saw good, by way of thrift, to
      bargain with his own Innkeeper, not with Drouet regular _Maître
      de Poste_, about some gig-horse for the sending back of his gig;
      which thing Drouet perceiving came over in red ire, menacing the
      Inn-keeper, and would not be appeased. Wholly an unsatisfactory
      day. For Drouet is an acrid Patriot too, was at the Paris Feast
      of Pikes: and what do these Bouillé Soldiers mean? Hussars, with
      their gig, and a vengeance to it!—have hardly been thrust out,
      when Dandoins and his fresh Dragoons arrive from Clermont, and
      stroll. For what purpose? Choleric Drouet steps out and steps in,
      with long-flowing nightgown; looking abroad, with that sharpness
      of faculty which stirred choler gives to man.

      On the other hand, mark Captain Dandoins on the street of that
      same Village; sauntering with a face of indifference, a heart
      eaten of black care! For no Korff Berline makes its appearance.
      The great Sun flames broader towards setting: one’s heart
      flutters on the verge of dread unutterabilities.

      By Heaven! Here is the yellow Bodyguard Courier; spurring fast,
      in the ruddy evening light! Steady, O Dandoins, stand with
      inscrutable indifferent face; though the yellow blockhead spurs
      past the Post-house; inquires to find it; and stirs the Village,
      all delighted with his fine livery.—Lumbering along with its
      mountains of bandboxes, and Chaise behind, the Korff Berline
      rolls in; huge Acapulco-ship with its Cockboat, having got thus
      far. The eyes of the Villagers look enlightened, as such eyes do
      when a coach-transit, which is an event, occurs for them.
      Strolling Dragoons respectfully, so fine are the yellow liveries,
      bring hand to helmet; and a lady in gipsy-hat responds with a
      grace peculiar to her.[385] Dandoins stands with folded arms, and
      what look of indifference and disdainful garrison-air a man can,
      while the heart is like leaping out of him. Curled disdainful
      moustachio; careless glance,—which however surveys the
      Village-groups, and does not like them. With his eye he bespeaks
      the yellow Courier. Be quick, be quick! Thick-headed Yellow
      cannot understand the eye; comes up mumbling, to ask in words:
      seen of the Village!

      Nor is Post-master Drouet unobservant, all this while; but steps
      out and steps in, with his long-flowing nightgown, in the level
      sunlight; prying into several things. When a man’s faculties, at
      the right time, are sharpened by choler, it may lead to much.
      That Lady in slouched gypsy-hat, though sitting back in the
      Carriage, does she not resemble some one we have seen, some
      time;—at the Feast of Pikes, or elsewhere? And this _Grosse-Tête_
      in round hat and peruke, which, looking rearward, pokes itself
      out from time to time, methinks there are features in it—? Quick,
      Sieur Guillaume, Clerk of the _Directoire_, bring me a new
      Assignat! Drouet scans the new Assignat; compares the Paper-money
      Picture with the Gross-Head in round hat there: by Day and Night!
      you might say the one was an attempted Engraving of the other.
      And this march of Troops; this sauntering and whispering,—I see
      it!

      Drouet Post-master of this Village, hot Patriot, Old Dragoon of
      Condé, consider, therefore, what thou wilt do. And fast: for
      behold the new Berline, expeditiously yoked, cracks whipcord, and
      rolls away!—Drouet dare not, on the spur of the instant, clutch
      the bridles in his own two hands; Dandoins, with broadsword,
      might hew you off. Our poor Nationals, not one of them here, have
      three hundred fusils but then no powder; besides one is not sure,
      only morally-certain. Drouet, as an adroit Old-Dragoon of Condé
      does what is advisablest: privily bespeaks Clerk Guillaume,
      Old-Dragoon of Condé he too; privily, while Clerk Guillaume is
      saddling two of the fleetest horses, slips over to the Townhall
      to whisper a word; then mounts with Clerk Guillaume; and the two
      bound eastward in pursuit, to _see_ what can be done.

      They bound eastward, in sharp trot; their moral-certainty
      permeating the Village, from the Townhall outwards, in busy
      whispers. Alas! Captain Dandoins orders his Dragoons to mount;
      but they, complaining of long fast, demand bread-and-cheese
      first;—before which brief repast can be eaten, the whole Village
      is permeated; not whispering now, but blustering and shrieking!
      National Volunteers, in hurried muster, shriek for gunpowder;
      Dragoons halt between Patriotism and Rule of the Service, between
      bread and cheese and fixed bayonets: Dandoins hands secretly his
      Pocket-book, with its secret despatches, to the rigorous
      Quartermaster: the very Ostlers have stable-forks and flails. The
      rigorous Quartermaster, half-saddled, cuts out his way with the
      sword’s edge, amid levelled bayonets, amid Patriot vociferations,
      adjurations, flail-strokes; and rides frantic;[386]—few or even
      none following him; the rest, so sweetly constrained consenting
      to stay there.

      And thus the new Berline rolls; and Drouet and Guillaume gallop
      after it, and Dandoins’s Troopers or Trooper gallops after them;
      and Sainte-Menehould, with some leagues of the King’s Highway, is
      in explosion;—and your Military thunder-chain has gone off in a
      self-destructive manner; one may fear with the frightfullest
      issues!


      Chapter 2.4.VII.
      The Night of Spurs.

      This comes of mysterious Escorts, and a new Berline with eleven
      horses: “he that has a secret should not only hide it, but hide
      that he has it to hide.” Your first Military Escort has exploded
      self-destructive; and all Military Escorts, and a suspicious
      Country will now be up, explosive; comparable _not_ to victorious
      thunder. Comparable, say rather, to the first stirring of an
      Alpine Avalanche; which, once stir it, as here at
      Sainte-Menehould, will spread,—all round, and on and on, as far
      as Stenai; thundering with wild ruin, till Patriot Villagers,
      Peasantry, Military Escorts, new Berline and Royalty are
      down,—jumbling in the Abyss!

      The thick shades of Night are falling. Postillions crack the
      whip: the Royal Berline is through Clermont, where Colonel Comte
      de Damas got a word whispered to it; is safe through, towards
      Varennes; rushing at the rate of double drink-money: an Unknown
      “_Inconnu_ on horseback” shrieks earnestly some hoarse whisper,
      not audible, into the rushing Carriage-window, and vanishes, left
      in the night.[387] August Travellers palpitate; nevertheless
      overwearied Nature sinks every one of them into a kind of sleep.
      Alas, and Drouet and Clerk Guillaume spur; taking side-roads, for
      shortness, for safety; scattering abroad that moral-certainty of
      theirs; which flies, a bird of the air carrying it!

      And your rigorous Quartermaster spurs; awakening hoarse
      trumpet-tone, as here at Clermont, calling out Dragoons gone to
      bed. Brave Colonel de Damas has them mounted, in part, these
      Clermont men; young Cornet Remy dashes off with a few. But the
      Patriot Magistracy is out here at Clermont too; National Guards
      shrieking for ball-cartridges; and the Village “illuminates
      itself;”—deft Patriots springing out of bed; alertly, in shirt or
      shift, striking a light; sticking up each his farthing candle, or
      penurious oil-cruise, till all glitters and glimmers; so deft are
      they! A _camisado_, or shirt-tumult, every where: stormbell set
      a-ringing; village-drum beating furious _générale_, as here at
      Clermont, under illumination; distracted Patriots pleading and
      menacing! Brave young Colonel de Damas, in that uproar of
      distracted Patriotism, speaks some fire-sentences to what
      Troopers he has: ‘Comrades insulted at Sainte-Menehould; King and
      Country calling on the brave;’ then gives the fire-word, _Draw
      swords_. Whereupon, alas, the Troopers only _smite_ their
      sword-handles, driving them further home! ‘To me, whoever is for
      the King!’ cries Damas in despair; and gallops, he with some poor
      loyal Two, of the subaltern sort, into the bosom of the
      Night.[388]

      Night unexampled in the Clermontais; shortest of the year;
      remarkablest of the century: Night deserving to be named of
      Spurs! Cornet Remy, and those Few he dashed off with, has missed
      his road; is galloping for hours towards Verdun; then, for hours,
      across hedged country, through roused hamlets, towards Varennes.
      Unlucky Cornet Remy; unluckier Colonel Damas, with whom there
      ride desperate only some loyal Two! More ride not of that
      Clermont Escort: of other Escorts, in other Villages, not even
      Two may ride; but only all curvet and prance,—impeded by
      stormbell and your Village illuminating itself.

      And Drouet rides and Clerk Guillaume; and the Country
      runs.—Goguelat and Duke Choiseul are plunging through morasses,
      over cliffs, over stock and stone, in the shaggy woods of the
      Clermontais; by tracks; or trackless, with guides; Hussars
      tumbling into pitfalls, and lying “swooned three quarters of an
      hour,” the rest refusing to march without them. What an
      evening-ride from Pont-de-Sommerville; what a thirty hours, since
      Choiseul quitted Paris, with Queen’s-valet Leonard in the chaise
      by him! Black Care sits behind the rider. Thus go they plunging;
      rustle the owlet from his branchy nest; champ the sweet-scented
      forest-herb, queen-of-the-meadows _spilling_ her spikenard; and
      frighten the ear of Night. But hark! towards twelve o’clock, as
      one guesses, for the very stars are gone out: sound of the tocsin
      from Varennes? Checking bridle, the Hussar Officer listens: ‘Some
      fire undoubtedly!’—yet rides on, with double breathlessness, to
      verify.

      Yes, gallant friends that do your utmost, it is a certain sort of
      fire: difficult to quench.—The Korff Berline, fairly ahead of all
      this riding Avalanche, reached the little paltry Village of
      Varennes about eleven o’clock; hopeful, in spite of that
      horse-whispering Unknown. Do not all towns now lie behind us;
      Verdun avoided, on our right? Within wind of Bouillé himself, in
      a manner; and the darkest of midsummer nights favouring us! And
      so we halt on the hill-top at the South end of the Village;
      expecting our relay; which young Bouillé, Bouillé’s own son, with
      his Escort of Hussars, was to have ready; for in this Village is
      no Post. Distracting to think of: neither horse nor Hussar is
      here! Ah, and stout horses, a proper relay belonging to Duke
      Choiseul, do stand at hay, but in the Upper Village over the
      Bridge; and we know not of them. Hussars likewise do wait, but
      drinking in the taverns. For indeed it is six hours beyond the
      time; young Bouillé, silly stripling, thinking the matter over
      for this night, has retired to bed. And so our yellow Couriers,
      inexperienced, must rove, groping, bungling, through a Village
      mostly asleep: Postillions will not, for any money, go on with
      the tired horses; not at least without refreshment; not they, let
      the Valet in round hat argue as he likes.

      Miserable! “For five-and-thirty minutes” by the King’s watch, the
      Berline is at a dead stand; Round-hat arguing with Churnboots;
      tired horses slobbering their meal-and-water; yellow Couriers
      groping, bungling;—young Bouillé asleep, all the while, in the
      Upper Village, and Choiseul’s fine team standing there at hay. No
      help for it; not with a King’s ransom: the horses deliberately
      slobber, Round-hat argues, Bouillé sleeps. And mark now, in the
      thick night, do not two Horsemen, with jaded trot, come
      clank-clanking; and start with half-pause, if one noticed them,
      at sight of this dim mass of a Berline, and its dull slobbering
      and arguing; then prick off faster, into the Village? It is
      Drouet, he and Clerk Guillaume! Still ahead, they two, of the
      whole riding hurlyburly; unshot, though some brag of having
      chased them. Perilous is Drouet’s errand also; but he is an
      Old-Dragoon, with his wits shaken thoroughly awake.

      The Village of Varennes lies dark and slumberous; a most unlevel
      Village, of inverse saddle-shape, as men write. It sleeps; the
      rushing of the River Aire singing lullaby to it. Nevertheless
      from the Golden Arms, _Bras d’Or_ Tavern, across that sloping
      marketplace, there still comes shine of social light; comes voice
      of rude drovers, or the like, who have not yet taken the
      stirrup-cup; Boniface Le Blanc, in white apron, serving them:
      cheerful to behold. To this _Bras d’Or_, Drouet enters, alacrity
      looking through his eyes: he nudges Boniface, in all privacy,
      ‘_Camarade, es-tu bon Patriote_, Art thou a good Patriot?’—‘_Si
      je suis!_’ answers Boniface.—‘In that case,’ eagerly whispers
      Drouet—what whisper is needful, heard of Boniface alone.[389]

      And now see Boniface Le Blanc bustling, as he never did for the
      jolliest toper. See Drouet and Guillaume, dexterous Old-Dragoons,
      instantly down blocking the Bridge, with a “furniture waggon they
      find there,” with whatever waggons, tumbrils, barrels, barrows
      their hands can lay hold of;—till no carriage can pass. Then
      swiftly, the Bridge once blocked, see them take station hard by,
      under Varennes Archway: joined by Le Blanc, Le Blanc’s Brother,
      and one or two alert Patriots he has roused. Some half-dozen in
      all, with National Muskets, they stand close, waiting under the
      Archway, till that same Korff Berline rumble up.

      It rumbles up: _Alte là!_ lanterns flash out from under
      coat-skirts, bridles chuck in strong fists, two National Muskets
      level themselves fore and aft through the two Coach-doors:
      ‘Mesdames, your Passports?’—Alas! Alas! Sieur Sausse, Procureur
      of the Township, Tallow-chandler also and Grocer is there, with
      official grocer-politeness; Drouet with fierce logic and ready
      wit:—The respected Travelling Party, be it Baroness de Korff’s,
      or persons of still higher consequence, will perhaps please to
      rest itself in M. Sausse’s till the dawn strike up!

      O Louis; O hapless Marie-Antoinette, fated to pass thy life with
      such men! Phlegmatic Louis, art thou but lazy semi-animate phlegm
      then, to the centre of thee? King, Captain-General, Sovereign
      Frank! If thy heart ever formed, since it began beating under the
      name of heart, any resolution at all, be it now then, or never in
      this world: ‘Violent nocturnal individuals, and if it were
      persons of high consequence? And if it were the King himself? Has
      the King not the power, which all beggars have, of travelling
      unmolested on his own Highway? Yes: it is the King; and tremble
      ye to know it! The King has said, in this one small matter; and
      in France, or under God’s Throne, is no power that shall gainsay.
      Not the King shall ye stop here under this your miserable
      Archway; but his dead body only, and answer it to Heaven and
      Earth. To me, Bodyguards: Postillions, _en avant!_’—One fancies
      in that case the pale paralysis of these two Le Blanc musketeers;
      the drooping of Drouet’s under-jaw; and how Procureur Sausse had
      melted like tallow in furnace-heat: Louis faring on; in some few
      steps awakening Young Bouillé, awakening relays and hussars:
      triumphant entry, with cavalcading high-brandishing Escort, and
      Escorts, into Montmédi; and the whole course of French History
      different!

      Alas, it was not _in_ the poor phlegmatic man. Had it been in
      him, French History had never come under this Varennes Archway to
      decide itself.—He steps out; all step out. Procureur Sausse gives
      his grocer-arms to the Queen and Sister Elizabeth; Majesty taking
      the two children by the hand. And thus they walk, coolly back,
      over the Marketplace, to Procureur Sausse’s; mount into his small
      upper story; where straightway his Majesty “demands
      refreshments.” Demands refreshments, as is written; gets
      bread-and-cheese with a bottle of Burgundy; and remarks, that it
      is the best Burgundy he ever drank!

      Meanwhile, the Varennes Notables, and all men, official, and
      non-official, are hastily drawing on their breeches; getting
      their fighting-gear. Mortals half-dressed tumble out barrels, lay
      felled trees; scouts dart off to all the four winds,—the tocsin
      begins clanging, “the Village illuminates itself.” Very singular:
      how these little Villages do manage, so adroit are they, when
      startled in midnight alarm of war. Like little adroit municipal
      rattle-snakes, suddenly awakened: for their stormbell rattles and
      rings; their eyes glisten luminous (with tallow-light), as in
      rattle-snake ire; and the Village will _sting!_ Old-Dragoon
      Drouet is our engineer and generalissimo; valiant as a Ruy
      Diaz:—Now or never, ye Patriots, for the Soldiery is coming;
      massacre by Austrians, by Aristocrats, wars more than civil, it
      all depends on you and the hour!—National Guards rank themselves,
      half-buttoned: mortals, we say, still only in breeches, in
      under-petticoat, tumble out barrels and lumber, lay felled trees
      for barricades: the Village will _sting_. Rabid Democracy, it
      would seem, is _not_ confined to Paris, then? Ah no, whatsoever
      Courtiers might talk; too clearly no. This of dying for one’s
      King is grown into a dying for one’s self, _against_ the King, if
      need be.

      And so our riding and running Avalanche and Hurlyburly has
      _reached_ the Abyss, Korff Berline foremost; and may pour itself
      thither, and jumble: endless! For the next six hours, need we ask
      if there was a clattering far and wide? Clattering and tocsining
      and hot tumult, over all the Clermontais, spreading through the
      Three Bishopricks: Dragoon and Hussar Troops galloping on roads
      and no-roads; National Guards arming and starting in the dead of
      night; tocsin after tocsin transmitting the alarm. In some forty
      minutes, Goguelat and Choiseul, with their wearied Hussars, reach
      Varennes. Ah, it is no fire then; or a fire difficult to quench!
      They leap the tree-barricades, in spite of National serjeant;
      they enter the village, Choiseul instructing his Troopers how the
      matter really is; who respond interjectionally, in their guttural
      dialect, ‘_Der König; die Königinn!_’ and seem stanch. These now,
      in their stanch humour, will, for one thing, beset Procureur
      Sausse’s house. Most beneficial: had not Drouet stormfully
      ordered otherwise; and even bellowed, in his extremity,
      ‘Cannoneers to your guns!’—two old honey-combed Field-pieces,
      empty of all but cobwebs; the rattle whereof, as the Cannoneers
      with assured countenance trundled them up, did nevertheless abate
      the Hussar ardour, and produce a respectfuller ranking further
      back. Jugs of wine, handed over the ranks, for the German throat
      too has sensibility, will complete the business. When Engineer
      Goguelat, some hour or so afterwards, steps forth, the response
      to him is—a hiccuping _Vive la Nation!_

      What boots it? Goguelat, Choiseul, now also Count Damas, and all
      the Varennes Officiality are with the King; and the King can give
      no order, form no opinion; but sits there, as he has ever done,
      like clay on potter’s wheel; perhaps the absurdest of all
      pitiable and pardonable clay-figures that now circle under the
      Moon. He will go on, next morning, and take the National Guard
      _with_ him; Sausse permitting! Hapless Queen: with her two
      children laid there on the mean bed, old Mother Sausse kneeling
      to Heaven, with tears and an audible prayer, to bless them;
      imperial Marie-Antoinette near kneeling to Son Sausse and Wife
      Sausse, amid candle-boxes and treacle-barrels,—in vain! There are
      Three-thousand National Guards got in; before long they will
      count Ten-thousand; tocsins spreading like fire on dry heath, or
      far faster.

      Young Bouillé, roused by this Varennes tocsin, has taken horse,
      and—fled towards his Father. Thitherward also rides, in an almost
      hysterically desperate manner, a certain Sieur Aubriot,
      Choiseul’s Orderly; swimming dark rivers, our Bridge being
      blocked; spurring as if the Hell-hunt were at his heels.[390]
      Through the village of Dun, he, galloping still on, scatters the
      alarm; at Dun, brave Captain Deslons and _his_ Escort of a
      Hundred, saddle and ride. Deslons too gets into Varennes; leaving
      his Hundred outside, at the tree-barricade; offers to cut King
      Louis out, if he will order it: but unfortunately ‘the work
      _will_ prove hot;’ whereupon King Louis has ‘no orders to
      give.’[391]

      And so the tocsin clangs, and Dragoons gallop; and can do
      nothing, having gallopped: National Guards stream in like the
      gathering of ravens: your exploding Thunder-chain, falling
      Avalanche, or what else we liken it to, does play, with a
      vengeance,—up now as far as Stenai and Bouillé himself.[392]
      Brave Bouillé, son of the whirlwind, he saddles Royal Allemand;
      speaks fire-words, kindling heart and eyes; distributes
      twenty-five gold-louis a company:—Ride, Royal-Allemand,
      long-famed: no Tuileries Charge and Necker-Orleans
      Bust-Procession; a very King made captive, and world all to
      win!—Such is the Night deserving to be named of Spurs.

      At six o’clock two things have happened. Lafayette’s
      Aide-de-camp, Romœuf, riding _à franc étrier_, on that old
      Herb-merchant’s route, quickened during the last stages, has got
      to Varennes; where the Ten thousand now furiously demand, with
      fury of panic terror, that Royalty shall forthwith return
      Paris-ward, that there be not infinite bloodshed. Also, on the
      other side, “English Tom,” Choiseul’s _jokei_, flying with that
      Choiseul relay, has met Bouillé on the heights of Dun; the
      adamantine brow flushed with dark thunder; thunderous rattle of
      Royal Allemand at his heels. English Tom answers as he can the
      brief question, How it is at Varennes?—then asks in turn what he,
      English Tom, with M. de Choiseul’s horses, is to do, and whither
      to ride?—To the Bottomless Pool! answers a thunder-voice; then
      again speaking and spurring, orders Royal Allemand to the gallop;
      and vanishes, swearing (_en jurant_).[393] ’Tis the last of our
      brave Bouillé. Within sight of Varennes, he having drawn bridle,
      calls a council of officers; finds that it is in vain. King Louis
      has departed, consenting: amid the clangour of universal
      stormbell; amid the tramp of Ten thousand armed men, already
      arrived; and say, of Sixty thousand flocking thither. Brave
      Deslons, even without “orders,” darted at the River Aire with his
      Hundred![394] swam one branch of it, could not the other; and
      stood there, dripping and panting, with inflated nostril; the Ten
      thousand answering him with a shout of mockery, the new Berline
      lumbering Paris-ward its weary inevitable way. No help, then in
      Earth; nor in an age, not of miracles, in Heaven!

      That night, “Marquis de Bouillé and twenty-one more of us rode
      over the Frontiers; the Bernardine monks at Orval in Luxemburg
      gave us supper and lodging.”[395] With little of speech, Bouillé
      rides; with thoughts that do not brook speech. Northward, towards
      uncertainty, and the Cimmerian Night: towards West-Indian Isles,
      for with thin Emigrant delirium the son of the whirlwind cannot
      act; towards England, towards premature Stoical death; not
      towards France any more. Honour to the Brave; who, be it in this
      quarrel or in that, _is_ a substance and articulate-speaking
      piece of Human Valour, not a fanfaronading hollow Spectrum and
      squeaking and gibbering Shadow! One of the few Royalist
      Chief-actors this Bouillé, of whom so much can be said.

      The brave Bouillé too, then, vanishes from the tissue of our
      Story. Story and tissue, faint ineffectual Emblem of that grand
      Miraculous Tissue, and Living Tapestry named _French Revolution_,
      which did weave itself then in very fact, “on the loud-sounding
      “LOOM OF TIME!” The old Brave drop out from it, with their
      strivings; and new acrid Drouets, of new strivings and colour,
      come in:—as is the manner of that weaving.


      Chapter 2.4.VIII.
      The Return.

      So then our grand Royalist Plot, of Flight to Metz, has
      _executed_ itself. Long hovering in the background, as a dread
      royal _ultimatum_, it has rushed forward in its terrors: verily
      to some purpose. How many Royalist Plots and Projects, one after
      another, cunningly-devised, that were to explode like
      powder-mines and thunderclaps; not one solitary Plot of which has
      issued otherwise! Powder-mine of a _Séance Royale_ on the
      Twenty-third of June 1789, which exploded as we then said,
      “through the touchhole;” which next, your wargod Broglie having
      reloaded it, brought a Bastille about your ears. Then came
      fervent Opera-Repast, with flourishing of sabres, and _O Richard,
      O my King;_ which, aided by Hunger, produces Insurrection of
      Women, and Pallas Athene in the shape of Demoiselle Théroigne.
      Valour profits not; neither has fortune smiled on Fanfaronade.
      The Bouillé Armament ends as the Broglie one had done. Man after
      man spends himself in this cause, only to work it quicker ruin;
      it seems a cause doomed, forsaken of Earth and Heaven.

      On the Sixth of October gone a year, King Louis, escorted by
      Demoiselle Théroigne and some two hundred thousand, made a Royal
      Progress and Entrance into Paris, such as man had never
      witnessed: we prophesied him Two more such; and accordingly
      another of them, after this Flight to Metz, is now coming to
      pass. Théroigne will not escort here, neither does Mirabeau now
      “sit in one of the accompanying carriages.” Mirabeau lies dead,
      in the Pantheon of Great Men. Théroigne lies living, in dark
      Austrian Prison; having gone to Liège, professionally, and been
      seized there. Bemurmured now by the hoarse-flowing Danube; the
      light of her Patriot Supper-Parties gone quite out; so lies
      Théroigne: she shall speak with the Kaiser face to face, and
      return. And France lies how! Fleeting Time shears down the great
      and the little; and in two years alters many things.

      But at all events, here, we say, is a second Ignominious Royal
      Procession, though much altered; to be witnessed also by its
      hundreds of thousands. Patience, ye Paris Patriots; the Royal
      Berline is returning. Not till Saturday: for the Royal Berline
      travels by slow stages; amid such loud-voiced confluent sea of
      National Guards, sixty thousand as they count; amid such tumult
      of all people. Three National-Assembly Commissioners, famed
      Barnave, famed Pétion, generally-respectable Latour-Maubourg,
      have gone to meet it; of whom the two former ride in the Berline
      itself beside Majesty, day after day. Latour, as a mere
      respectability, and man of whom all men speak well, can ride in
      the rear, with Dame Tourzel and the _Soubrettes_.

      So on Saturday evening, about seven o’clock, Paris by hundreds of
      thousands is again drawn up: not now dancing the tricolor
      joy-dance of hope; nor as yet dancing in fury-dance of hate and
      revenge; but in silence, with vague look of conjecture and
      curiosity mostly scientific. A Sainte-Antoine Placard has given
      notice this morning that “whosoever insults Louis shall be caned,
      whosoever applauds him shall be hanged.” Behold then, at last,
      that wonderful New Berline; encircled by blue National sea with
      fixed bayonets, which flows slowly, floating it on, through the
      silent assembled hundreds of thousands. Three yellow Couriers sit
      atop bound with ropes; Pétion, Barnave, their Majesties, with
      Sister Elizabeth, and the Children of France, are within.

      Smile of embarrassment, or cloud of dull sourness, is on the
      broad phlegmatic face of his Majesty: who keeps declaring to the
      successive Official-persons, what is evident, ‘_Eh bien, me
      voilà_, Well, here you have me;’ and what is not evident, ‘I do
      assure you I did not mean to pass the frontiers;’ and so forth:
      speeches natural for that poor Royal man; which Decency would
      veil. Silent is her Majesty, with a look of grief and scorn;
      natural for that Royal Woman. Thus lumbers and creeps the
      ignominious Royal Procession, through many streets, amid a
      silent-gazing people: comparable, Mercier thinks,[396] to some
      _Procession de Roi de Bazoche;_ or say, Procession of King
      Crispin, with his Dukes of Sutor-mania and royal blazonry of
      Cordwainery. Except indeed that this is not comic; ah no, it is
      comico-tragic; with bound Couriers, and a Doom hanging over it;
      most fantastic, yet most miserably real. Miserablest _flebile
      ludibrium_ of a Pickleherring Tragedy! It sweeps along there, in
      most ungorgeous pall, through many streets, in the dusty summer
      evening; gets itself at length wriggled out of sight; vanishing
      in the Tuileries Palace—towards its doom, of slow torture, _peine
      forte et dure_.

      Populace, it is true, seizes the three rope-bound yellow
      Couriers; will at least massacre _them_. But our august Assembly,
      which is sitting at this great moment, sends out Deputation of
      rescue; and the whole is got huddled up. Barnave, “all dusty,” is
      already there, in the National Hall; making brief discreet
      address and report. As indeed, through the whole journey, this
      Barnave has been most discreet, sympathetic; and has gained the
      Queen’s trust, whose noble instinct teaches her always who is to
      be trusted. Very different from heavy Pétion; who, if Campan
      speak truth, ate his luncheon, comfortably filled his wine-glass,
      in the Royal Berline; flung out his chicken-bones past the nose
      of Royalty itself; and, on the King’s saying ‘France cannot be a
      Republic,’ answered ‘No, it is not ripe yet.’ Barnave is
      henceforth a Queen’s adviser, if advice could profit: and her
      Majesty astonishes Dame Campan by signifying almost a regard for
      Barnave: and that, in a day of retribution and Royal triumph,
      Barnave shall _not_ be executed.[397]

      On Monday night Royalty went; on Saturday evening it returns: so
      much, within one short week, has Royalty accomplished for itself.
      The Pickleherring Tragedy has vanished in the Tuileries Palace,
      towards “pain strong and hard.” Watched, fettered, and humbled,
      as Royalty never was. Watched even in its sleeping-apartments and
      inmost recesses: for it has to sleep with door set ajar, blue
      National Argus watching, his eye fixed on the Queen’s curtains;
      nay, on one occasion, as the Queen cannot sleep, he offers to sit
      by her pillow, and converse a little![398]


      Chapter 2.4.IX.
      Sharp Shot.

      In regard to all which, this most pressing question arises: What
      is to be done with it? ‘Depose it!’ resolutely answer Robespierre
      and the thoroughgoing few. For truly, with a King who runs away,
      and needs to be watched in his very bedroom that he may stay and
      govern you, what other reasonable thing can be done? Had Philippe
      d’Orléans not been a _caput mortuum!_ But of him, known as one
      defunct, no man now dreams. ‘Depose it not; say that it is
      inviolable, that it was spirited away, was _enlevé;_ at any cost
      of sophistry and solecism, reestablish it!’ so answer with loud
      vehemence all manner of Constitutional Royalists; as all your
      Pure Royalists do naturally likewise, with low vehemence, and
      rage compressed by fear, still more passionately answer. Nay
      Barnave and the two Lameths, and what will follow them, do
      likewise answer so. Answer, with their whole might: terror-struck
      at the unknown Abysses on the verge of which, driven thither by
      themselves mainly, all now reels, ready to plunge.

      By mighty effort and combination this latter course, of
      reestablish it, is the course fixed on; and it shall by the
      strong arm, if not by the clearest logic, be made good. With the
      sacrifice of all their hard-earned popularity, this notable
      Triumvirate, says Toulongeon, “set the Throne up again, which
      they had so toiled to overturn: as one might set up an overturned
      pyramid, on its vertex; to stand so long as it is _held_.”

      Unhappy France; unhappy in King, Queen, and Constitution; one
      knows not in which unhappiest! Was the meaning of our so glorious
      French Revolution this, and no other, That when Shams and
      Delusions, long soul-killing, had become body-killing, and got
      the length of Bankruptcy and Inanition, a great People rose and,
      with one voice, said, in the Name of the Highest: _Shams shall be
      no more?_ So many sorrows and bloody horrors, endured, and to be
      yet endured through dismal coming centuries, were they not the
      heavy price paid and payable for this same: Total Destruction of
      Shams from among men? And now, O Barnave Triumvirate! is it in
      such _double_-distilled Delusion, and Sham even of a Sham, that
      an Effort of this kind will rest acquiescent? Messieurs of the
      popular Triumvirate: Never! But, after all, what can poor popular
      Triumvirates and fallible august Senators do? They can, when the
      Truth is all too-horrible, stick their heads ostrich-like into
      what sheltering Fallacy is nearest: and wait there, _à
      posteriori._

      Readers who saw the Clermontais and Three-Bishopricks gallop, in
      the Night of Spurs; Diligences ruffling up all France into one
      terrific terrified Cock of India; and the Town of Nantes in its
      shirt,—may fancy what an affair to settle this was. Robespierre,
      on the extreme Left, with perhaps Pétion and lean old Goupil, for
      the very Triumvirate has defalcated, are shrieking hoarse;
      drowned in Constitutional clamour. But the debate and arguing of
      a whole Nation; the bellowings through all Journals, for and
      against; the reverberant voice of Danton; the Hyperion-shafts of
      Camille; the porcupine-quills of implacable Marat:—conceive all
      this.

      Constitutionalists in a body, as we often predicted, do now
      recede from the Mother Society, and become _Feuillans;_
      threatening her with inanition, the rank and respectability being
      mostly gone. Petition after Petition, forwarded by Post, or borne
      in Deputation, comes praying for Judgment and _Déchéance_, which
      is our name for Deposition; praying, at lowest, for Reference to
      the Eighty-three Departments of France. Hot Marseillese
      Deputation comes declaring, among other things: ‘Our Phocean
      Ancestors flung a Bar of Iron into the Bay at their first
      landing; this Bar will float again on the Mediterranean brine
      before we consent to be slaves.’ All this for four weeks or more,
      while the matter still hangs doubtful; Emigration streaming with
      double violence over the frontiers;[399] France seething in
      fierce agitation of this question and prize-question: What is to
      be done with the fugitive Hereditary Representative?

      Finally, on Friday the 15th of July 1791, the National Assembly
      decides; in what negatory manner we know. Whereupon the Theatres
      all close, the _Bourne_-stones and Portable-chairs begin
      spouting, Municipal Placards flaming on the walls, and
      Proclamations published by sound of trumpet, “invite to repose;”
      with small effect. And so, on Sunday the 17th, there shall be a
      thing seen, worthy of remembering. Scroll of a Petition, drawn up
      by Brissots, Dantons, by Cordeliers, Jacobins; for the thing was
      infinitely shaken and manipulated, and many had a hand in it:
      such Scroll lies now visible, on the wooden framework of the
      Fatherland’s Altar, for signature. Unworking Paris, male and
      female, is crowding thither, all day, to sign or to see. Our fair
      Roland herself the eye of History can discern there, “in the
      morning;”[400] not without interest. In few weeks the fair
      Patriot will quit Paris; yet perhaps only to return.

      But, what with sorrow of baulked Patriotism, what with closed
      theatres, and Proclamations still publishing themselves by sound
      of trumpet, the fervour of men’s minds, this day, is great. Nay,
      over and above, there has fallen out an incident, of the nature
      of Farce-Tragedy and Riddle; enough to stimulate all creatures.
      Early in the day, a Patriot (or some say, it was a Patriotess,
      and indeed Truth is undiscoverable), while standing on the firm
      deal-board of Fatherland’s Altar, feels suddenly, with
      indescribable torpedo-shock of amazement, his bootsole pricked
      through from below; he clutches up suddenly this electrified
      bootsole and foot; discerns next instant—the point of a gimlet or
      brad-awl playing up, through the firm deal-board, and now hastily
      drawing itself back! Mystery, perhaps Treason? The wooden
      frame-work is impetuously broken up; and behold, verily a
      mystery; never explicable fully to the end of the world! Two
      human individuals, of mean aspect, one of them with a wooden leg,
      lie ensconced there, gimlet in hand: they must have come in
      overnight; they have a supply of provisions,—no “barrel of
      gunpowder” that one can _see;_ they affect to be asleep; look
      blank enough, and give the lamest account of themselves. ‘Mere
      curiosity; they were boring up to get an eye-hole; to see,
      perhaps “with lubricity,” whatsoever, from that _new_ point of
      vision, could be seen:’—little that was edifying, one would
      think! But indeed what stupidest thing may not human Dulness,
      Pruriency, Lubricity, Chance and the Devil, choosing Two out of
      Half-a-million idle human heads, tempt them to?[401]

      Sure enough, the two human individuals with their gimlet are
      there. Ill-starred pair of individuals! For the result of it all
      is that Patriotism, fretting itself, in this state of nervous
      excitability, with hypotheses, suspicions and reports, keeps
      questioning these two distracted human individuals, and again
      questioning them; claps them into the nearest Guardhouse,
      clutches them out again; one hypothetic group snatching them from
      another: till finally, in such extreme state of nervous
      excitability, Patriotism hangs them as spies of Sieur Motier; and
      the life and secret is choked out of them forevermore.
      Forevermore, alas! Or is a day to be looked for when these two
      evidently mean individuals, who are human nevertheless, will
      become Historical Riddles; and, like him of the _Iron Mask_ (also
      a human individual, and evidently nothing more),—have their
      Dissertations? To us this only is certain, that they had a
      gimlet, provisions and a wooden leg; and have died there on the
      Lanterne, as the unluckiest fools might die.

      And so the signature goes on, in a still more excited manner. And
      Chaumette, for Antiquarians possess the very Paper to this
      hour,[402]—has signed himself “in a flowing saucy hand slightly
      leaned;” and Hébert, detestable _Père Duchesne_, as if “an inked
      spider had dropped on the paper;” Usher Maillard also has signed,
      and many Crosses, which cannot write. And Paris, through its
      thousand avenues, is welling to the Champ-de-Mars and from it, in
      the utmost excitability of humour; central Fatherland’s Altar
      quite heaped with signing Patriots and Patriotesses; the
      Thirty-benches and whole internal Space crowded with onlookers,
      with comers and goers; one regurgitating whirlpool of men and
      women in their Sunday clothes. All which a Constitutional Sieur
      Motier sees; and Bailly, looking into it with his long visage
      made still longer. Auguring no good; perhaps _Déchéance_ and
      Deposition after all! Stop it, ye Constitutional Patriots; fire
      itself is quenchable, yet only quenchable at _first._

      Stop it, truly: but how stop it? Have not the first Free People
      of the Universe a right to petition?—Happily, if also unhappily,
      here is one proof of riot: these two human individuals, hanged at
      the Lanterne. Proof, O treacherous Sieur Motier? Were they not
      two human individuals sent thither by thee to be hanged; to be a
      pretext for thy bloody _Drapeau Rouge?_ This question shall many
      a Patriot, one day, ask; and answer affirmatively, strong in
      Preternatural Suspicion.

      Enough, towards half past seven in the evening, the mere natural
      eye can behold this thing: Sieur Motier, with Municipals in
      scarf, with blue National Patrollotism, rank after rank, to the
      clang of drums; wending resolutely to the Champ-de-Mars; Mayor
      Bailly, with elongated visage, bearing, as in sad duty bound, the
      _Drapeau Rouge._ Howl of angry derision rises in treble and bass
      from a hundred thousand throats, at the sight of Martial Law;
      which nevertheless waving its Red sanguinary Flag, advances
      there, from the Gros-Caillou Entrance; advances, drumming and
      waving, towards Altar of Fatherland. Amid still wilder howls,
      with objurgation, obtestation; with flights of pebbles and mud,
      _saxa et fæces;_ with crackle of a pistol-shot;—finally with
      volley-fire of Patrollotism; levelled muskets; roll of volley on
      volley! Precisely after one year and three days, our sublime
      Federation Field is wetted, in this manner, with French blood.

      Some “Twelve unfortunately shot,” reports Bailly, counting by
      units; but Patriotism counts by tens and even by hundreds. Not to
      be forgotten, nor forgiven! Patriotism flies, shrieking,
      execrating. Camille ceases Journalising, this day; great Danton
      with Camille and Fréron have taken wing, for their life; Marat
      burrows deep in the Earth, and is silent. Once more Patrollotism
      has triumphed: one other time; but it is the last.

      This was the Royal Flight to Varennes. Thus was the Throne
      overturned thereby; but thus also was it victoriously set up
      again—on its vertex; and will stand while it can be held.


      BOOK 2.V.
      PARLIAMENT FIRST


      Chapter 2.5.I.
      Grande Acceptation.

      In the last nights of September, when the autumnal equinox is
      past, and grey September fades into brown October, why are the
      Champs Elysées illuminated; why is Paris dancing, and flinging
      fire-works? They are gala-nights, these last of September; Paris
      may well dance, and the Universe: the Edifice of the Constitution
      is completed! Completed; nay _revised_, to see that there was
      nothing insufficient in it; solemnly proferred to his Majesty;
      solemnly accepted by him, to the sound of cannon-salvoes, on the
      fourteenth of the month. And now by such illumination, jubilee,
      dancing and fire-working, do we joyously handsel the new Social
      Edifice, and first raise heat and reek there, in the name of
      Hope.

      The Revision, especially with a throne standing on its vertex,
      has been a work of difficulty, of delicacy. In the way of
      propping and buttressing, so indispensable now, something could
      be done; and yet, as is feared, not enough. A repentant Barnave
      Triumvirate, our Rabauts, Duports, Thourets, and indeed all
      Constitutional Deputies did strain every nerve: but the Extreme
      Left was so noisy; the People were so suspicious, clamorous to
      have the work ended: and then the loyal Right Side sat feeble
      petulant all the while, and as it were, pouting and petting;
      unable to help, had they even been willing; the two Hundred and
      Ninety had solemnly made scission, before that: and departed,
      shaking the dust off their feet. To such transcendency of fret,
      and desperate hope that worsening of the bad might the sooner end
      it and bring back the good, had our unfortunate loyal Right Side
      now come![403]

      However, one finds that this and the other little prop has been
      added, where possibility allowed. Civil-list and Privy-purse were
      from of old well cared for. King’s Constitutional Guard, Eighteen
      hundred loyal men from the Eighty-three Departments, under a
      loyal Duke de Brissac; this, with trustworthy Swiss besides, is
      of itself something. The old loyal Bodyguards are indeed
      dissolved, in name as well as in fact; and gone mostly towards
      Coblentz. But now also those Sansculottic violent Gardes
      Françaises, or Centre Grenadiers, shall have their mittimus: they
      do ere long, in the Journals, not without a hoarse pathos,
      publish their Farewell; “wishing all Aristocrats the graves in
      Paris which to us are denied.”[404] They depart, these first
      Soldiers of the Revolution; they hover very dimly in the distance
      for about another year; till they can be remodelled, new-named,
      and sent to fight the Austrians; and then History beholds them no
      more. A most notable Corps of men; which has its place in
      World-History;—though to us, so is History written, they remain
      mere rubrics of men; nameless; a shaggy Grenadier Mass, crossed
      with buff-belts. And yet might we not ask: What Argonauts, what
      Leonidas’ Spartans had done such a work? Think of their destiny:
      since that May morning, some three years ago, when they,
      unparticipating, trundled off d’Espréménil to the Calypso Isles;
      since that July evening, some two years ago, when they,
      participating and _sacre_ing with knit brows, poured a volley
      into Besenval’s Prince de Lambesc! History waves them her mute
      adieu.

      So that the Sovereign Power, these Sansculottic Watchdogs, more
      like wolves, being leashed and led away from his Tuileries,
      breathes freer. The Sovereign Power is guarded henceforth by a
      loyal Eighteen hundred,—whom Contrivance, under various pretexts,
      may gradually swell to Six thousand; who will hinder no Journey
      to Saint-Cloud. The sad Varennes business has been soldered up;
      cemented, even in the blood of the Champ-de-Mars, these two
      months and more; and indeed ever since, as formerly, Majesty has
      had its privileges, its “choice of residence,” though, for good
      reasons, the royal mind “prefers continuing in Paris.” Poor royal
      mind, poor Paris; that have to go mumming; enveloped in
      speciosities, in falsehood which knows itself false; and to enact
      mutually your sorrowful farce-tragedy, being bound to it; and on
      the whole, to hope always, in spite of hope!

      Nay, now that his Majesty has accepted the Constitution, to the
      sound of cannon-salvoes, who would not hope? Our good King was
      misguided but he meant well. Lafayette has moved for an Amnesty,
      for universal forgiving and forgetting of Revolutionary faults;
      and now surely the glorious Revolution cleared of its rubbish, is
      complete! Strange enough, and touching in several ways, the old
      cry of _Vive le Roi_ once more rises round King Louis the
      Hereditary Representative. Their Majesties went to the Opera;
      gave money to the Poor: the Queen herself, now when the
      Constitution is accepted, hears voice of cheering. Bygone shall
      be bygone; the New Era _shall_ begin! To and fro, amid those
      lamp-galaxies of the Elysian Fields, the Royal Carriage slowly
      wends and rolls; every where with _vivats_, from a multitude
      striving to be glad. Louis looks out, mainly on the variegated
      lamps and gay human groups, with satisfaction enough for the
      hour. In her Majesty’s face, “under that kind graceful smile a
      deep sadness is legible.”[405] Brilliancies, of valour and of
      wit, stroll here observant: a Dame de Staël, leaning most
      probably on the arm of her Narbonne. She meets Deputies; who have
      built this Constitution; who saunter here with vague
      communings,—not without thoughts whether it will stand. But as
      yet melodious fiddlestrings twang and warble every where, with
      the rhythm of light fantastic feet; long lamp-galaxies fling
      their coloured radiance; and brass-lunged Hawkers elbow and bawl,
      ‘_Grande Acceptation, Constitution Monarchique:_’ it behoves the
      Son of Adam to hope. Have not Lafayette, Barnave, and all
      Constitutionalists set their shoulders handsomely to the inverted
      pyramid of a throne? Feuillans, including almost the whole
      Constitutional Respectability of France, perorate nightly from
      their tribune; correspond through all Post-offices; denouncing
      unquiet Jacobinism; trusting well that _its_ time is nigh done.
      Much is uncertain, questionable: but if the Hereditary
      Representative be wise and lucky, may one not, with a sanguine
      Gaelic temper, hope that he will get in motion better or worse;
      that what is wanting to him will gradually be gained and added?

      For the rest, as we must repeat, in this building of the
      Constitutional Fabric, especially in this Revision of it, nothing
      that one could think of to give it new strength, especially to
      steady it, to give it permanence, and even eternity, has been
      forgotten. Biennial Parliament, to be called Legislative,
      _Assemblée Legislative;_ with Seven Hundred and Forty-five
      Members, chosen in a judicious manner by the “active citizens”
      alone, and even by electing of electors still more active: this,
      with privileges of Parliament shall meet, self-authorized if need
      be, and self-dissolved; shall grant money-supplies and talk;
      watch over the administration and authorities; discharge for ever
      the functions of a Constitutional Great Council, Collective
      Wisdom, and National Palaver,—as the Heavens will enable. Our
      First biennial Parliament, which indeed has been a-choosing since
      early in August, is now as good as chosen. Nay it has mostly got
      to Paris: it arrived gradually;—not without pathetic greeting to
      its venerable Parent, the now moribund Constituent; and sat there
      in the Galleries, reverently listening; ready to begin, the
      instant the ground were clear.

      Then as to changes in the Constitution itself? This, impossible
      for any Legislative, or common biennial Parliament, and possible
      solely for some resuscitated Constituent or National
      Convention,—is evidently one of the most ticklish points. The
      august moribund Assembly debated it for four entire days. Some
      thought a change, or at least reviewal and new approval, might be
      admissible in thirty years; some even went lower, down to twenty,
      nay to fifteen. The august Assembly had once decided for thirty
      years; but it revoked that, on better thoughts; and did not fix
      any date of time, but merely some vague outline of a posture of
      circumstances, and on the whole left the matter hanging.[406]
      Doubtless a National Convention can be assembled even _within_
      the thirty years: yet one may hope, not; but that Legislatives,
      biennial Parliaments of the common kind, with their limited
      faculty, and perhaps quiet successive additions thereto, may
      suffice, for generations, or indeed while computed Time runs.

      Furthermore, be it noted that no member of this Constituent has
      been, or could be, elected to the new Legislative. So
      noble-minded were these Law-makers! cry some: and Solon-like
      would banish themselves. So splenetic! cry more: each grudging
      the other, none daring to be outdone in self-denial by the other.
      So unwise in either case! answer all practical men. But consider
      this other self-denying ordinance, That none of us can be King’s
      Minister, or accept the smallest Court Appointment, for the space
      of four, or at lowest (and on long debate and Revision), for the
      space of two years! So moves the incorruptible seagreen
      Robespierre; with cheap magnanimity he; and none dare be outdone
      by him. It was such a law, not so superfluous _then_, that sent
      Mirabeau to the Gardens of Saint-Cloud, under cloak of darkness,
      to that colloquy of the gods; and thwarted many things. Happily
      and unhappily there is no Mirabeau now to thwart.

      Welcomer meanwhile, welcome surely to all right hearts, is
      Lafayette’s chivalrous Amnesty. Welcome too is that hard-wrung
      Union of Avignon; which has cost us, first and last, “thirty
      sessions of debate,” and so much else: may it at length prove
      lucky! Rousseau’s statue is decreed: virtuous Jean-Jacques,
      Evangelist of the Contrat Social. Not Drouet of Varennes; nor
      worthy Lataille, master of the old world-famous Tennis Court in
      Versailles, is forgotten; but each has his honourable mention,
      and due reward in money.[407] Whereupon, things being all so
      neatly winded up, and the Deputations, and Messages, and royal
      and other Ceremonials having rustled by; and the King having now
      affectionately perorated about peace and tranquilisation, and
      members having answered ‘_Oui! oui!_’ with effusion, even with
      tears,—President Thouret, he of the Law Reforms, rises, and, with
      a strong voice, utters these memorable last-words: ‘The National
      Constituent Assembly declares that it has finished its mission;
      and that its sittings are all ended.’ Incorruptible Robespierre,
      virtuous Pétion are borne home on the shoulders of the people;
      with vivats heaven-high. The rest glide quietly to their
      respective places of abode. It is the last afternoon of
      September, 1791; on the morrow morning the new Legislative will
      begin.

      So, amid glitter of illuminated streets and Champs Elysées, and
      crackle of fireworks and glad deray, has the first National
      Assembly vanished; _dissolving_, as they well say, into blank
      Time; and is no more. National Assembly is gone, its work
      remaining; as all Bodies of men go, and as man himself goes: it
      had its beginning, and must likewise have its end. A
      Phantasm-Reality born of Time, as the rest of us are; flitting
      ever backwards now on the tide of Time: to be long remembered of
      men. Very strange Assemblages, Sanhedrims, Amphictyonics, Trades
      Unions, Ecumenic Councils, Parliaments and Congresses, have met
      together on this Planet, and dispersed again; but a stranger
      Assemblage than this august Constituent, or with a stranger
      mission, perhaps never met there. Seen from the distance, this
      also will be a miracle. Twelve Hundred human individuals, with
      the Gospel of Jean-Jacques Rousseau in their pocket, congregating
      in the name of Twenty-five Millions, with full assurance of
      faith, to “make the Constitution:” such sight, the acme and main
      product of the Eighteenth Century, our World can witness once
      only. For Time is rich in wonders, in monstrosities most rich;
      and is observed never to repeat himself, or any of his
      Gospels:—surely least of all, this Gospel according to
      Jean-Jacques. Once it was right and indispensable, since such had
      become the Belief of men; but once also is enough.

      They have made the Constitution, these Twelve Hundred
      Jean-Jacques Evangelists; not without result. Near twenty-nine
      months they sat, with various fortune; in various
      capacity;—always, we may say, in that capacity of carborne
      Caroccio, and miraculous Standard of the Revolt of Men, as a
      Thing high and lifted up; whereon whosoever looked might hope
      healing. They have seen much: cannons levelled on them; then
      suddenly, by interposition of the Powers, the cannons drawn back;
      and a war-god Broglie vanishing, in thunder _not_ his own, amid
      the dust and downrushing of a Bastille and Old Feudal France.
      They have suffered somewhat: Royal Session, with rain and Oath of
      the Tennis-Court; Nights of Pentecost; Insurrections of Women.
      Also have they not done somewhat? Made the Constitution, and
      managed all things the while; passed, in these twenty-nine
      months, “twenty-five hundred Decrees,” which on the average is
      some three for each day, including Sundays! Brevity, one finds,
      is possible, at times: had not Moreau de St. Mery to give three
      thousand orders before rising from his seat?—There was valour (or
      value) in these men; and a kind of faith,—were it only faith in
      this, That cobwebs are not cloth; that a Constitution could be
      made. Cobwebs and chimeras ought verily to disappear; for _a_
      Reality there is. Let formulas, soul-killing, and now grown
      body-killing, insupportable, begone, in the name of Heaven and
      Earth!—Time, as we say, brought forth these Twelve Hundred;
      Eternity was before them, Eternity behind: they worked, as we all
      do, in the confluence of Two Eternities; what work was given
      them. Say not that it was nothing they did. Consciously they did
      somewhat; unconsciously how much! They had their giants and their
      dwarfs, they accomplished their good and their evil; they are
      gone, and return no more. Shall they not go with our blessing, in
      these circumstances; with our mild farewell?

      By post, by diligence, on saddle or sole; they are gone: towards
      the four winds! Not a few over the marches, to rank at Coblentz.
      Thither wended Maury, among others; but in the end towards
      Rome,—to be clothed there in red Cardinal plush; in falsehood as
      in a garment; pet son (her _last_-born?) of the Scarlet Woman.
      Talleyrand-Perigord, excommunicated Constitutional Bishop, will
      make his way to London; to be Ambassador, spite of the
      Self-denying Law; brisk young Marquis Chauvelin acting as
      Ambassador’s-Cloak. In London too, one finds Pétion the virtuous;
      harangued and haranguing, pledging the wine-cup with
      Constitutional Reform Clubs, in solemn tavern-dinner.
      Incorruptible Robespierre retires for a little to native Arras:
      seven short weeks of quiet; the last appointed him in this world.
      Public Accuser in the Paris Department, acknowledged highpriest
      of the Jacobins; the glass of incorruptible thin Patriotism, for
      his narrow emphasis is loved of all the narrow,—this man seems to
      be rising, somewhither? He sells his small heritage at Arras;
      accompanied by a Brother and a Sister, he returns, scheming out
      with resolute timidity a small sure destiny for himself and them,
      to his old lodging, at the Cabinet-maker’s, in the Rue St.
      Honoré:—O resolute-tremulous incorruptible seagreen man, towards
      _what_ a destiny!

      Lafayette, for his part, will lay down the command. He retires
      Cincinnatus-like to his hearth and farm; but soon leaves them
      again. Our National Guard, however, shall henceforth have no one
      Commandant; but all Colonels shall command in succession, month
      about. Other Deputies we have met, or Dame de Staël has met,
      “sauntering in a thoughtful manner;” perhaps uncertain what to
      do. Some, as Barnave, the Lameths, and their Duport, will
      continue here in Paris: watching the new biennial Legislative,
      Parliament the First; teaching it to walk, if so might be; and
      the Court to lead it.

      Thus these: sauntering in a thoughtful manner; travelling by post
      or diligence,—whither Fate beckons. Giant Mirabeau slumbers in
      the Pantheon of Great Men: and France? and Europe?—The
      brass-lunged Hawkers sing ‘Grand Acceptation, Monarchic
      Constitution’ through these gay crowds: the Morrow, grandson of
      Yesterday, must be what it can, as Today its father is. Our new
      biennial Legislative begins to constitute itself on the first of
      October, 1791.


      Chapter 2.5.II.
      The Book of the Law.

      If the august Constituent Assembly itself, fixing the regards of
      the Universe, could, at the present distance of time and place,
      gain comparatively small attention from us, how much less can
      this poor Legislative! It has its Right Side and its Left; the
      less Patriotic and the more, for Aristocrats exist not here or
      now: it spouts and speaks: listens to Reports, reads Bills and
      Laws; works in its vocation, for a season: but the history of
      France, one finds, is seldom or never there. Unhappy Legislative,
      what can History do with it; if not drop a tear over it, almost
      in silence? First of the two-year Parliaments of France, which,
      if Paper Constitution and oft-repeated National Oath could avail
      aught, were to follow in softly-strong indissoluble sequence
      while Time ran,—it had to vanish dolefully within one year; and
      there came no second like it. Alas! your biennial Parliaments in
      endless indissoluble sequence; they, and all that Constitutional
      Fabric, built with such explosive Federation Oaths, and its
      top-stone brought out with dancing and variegated radiance, went
      to pieces, like frail crockery, in the crash of things; and
      already, in eleven short months, were in that Limbo near the
      Moon, with the ghosts of other Chimeras. There, except for rare
      specific purposes, let them rest, in melancholy peace.

      On the whole, how unknown is a man to himself; or a public Body
      of men to itself! Æsop’s fly sat on the chariot-wheel,
      exclaiming, What a dust I do raise! Great Governors, clad in
      purple with fasces and insignia, are governed by their valets, by
      the pouting of their women and children; or, in Constitutional
      countries, by the paragraphs of their Able Editors. Say not, I am
      this or that; I am doing this or that! For thou knowest _it_ not,
      thou knowest only the name it as yet goes by. A purple
      Nebuchadnezzar rejoices to feel himself now verily Emperor of
      this great Babylon which he has builded; and _is_ a nondescript
      biped-quadruped, on the eve of a seven-years course of grazing!
      These Seven Hundred and Forty-five elected individuals doubt not
      but they are the First biennial Parliament, come to govern France
      by parliamentary eloquence: and they _are_ what? And they have
      come to do what? Things foolish and not wise!

      It is much lamented by many that this First Biennial had no
      members of the old Constituent in it, with their experience of
      parties and parliamentary tactics; that such was their foolish
      Self-denying Law. Most surely, old members of the Constituent had
      been welcome to us here. But, on the other hand, what old or what
      new members of any Constituent under the Sun could have
      effectually profited? There are First biennial Parliaments so
      postured as to be, in a sense, _beyond_ wisdom; where wisdom and
      folly differ only in degree, and wreckage and dissolution are the
      appointed issue for both.

      Old-Constituents, your Barnaves, Lameths and the like, for whom a
      special Gallery has been set apart, where they may sit in honour
      and listen, are in the habit of sneering at these new
      Legislators;[408] but let not us! The poor Seven Hundred and
      Forty-five, sent together by the active citizens of France, are
      what they could be; do what is fated them. That they are of
      Patriot temper we can well understand. Aristocrat Noblesse had
      fled over the marches, or sat brooding silent in their unburnt
      Châteaus; small prospect had they in Primary Electoral
      Assemblies. What with Flights to Varennes, what with Days of
      Poniards, with plot after plot, the People are left to
      themselves; the People must needs choose Defenders of the People,
      such as can be had. Choosing, as _they_ also will ever do, “if
      not the ablest man, yet the man ablest to be chosen!” Fervour of
      character, decided Patriot-Constitutional feeling; these are
      qualities: but free utterance, mastership in tongue-fence; this
      is the quality of qualities. Accordingly one finds, with little
      astonishment, in this First Biennial, that as many as Four
      hundred Members are of the Advocate or Attorney species. Men who
      can speak, if there be aught to speak: nay here are men also who
      can think, and even act. Candour will say of this ill-fated First
      French Parliament that it wanted not its modicum of talent, its
      modicum of honesty; that it, neither in the one respect nor in
      the other, sank below the average of Parliaments, but rose above
      the average. Let average Parliaments, whom the world does _not_
      guillotine, and cast forth to long infamy, be thankful not to
      themselves but to their stars!

      France, as we say, has once more done what it could: fervid men
      have come together from wide separation; for strange issues.
      Fiery Max Isnard is come, from the utmost South-East; fiery
      Claude Fauchet, Te-Deum Fauchet Bishop of Calvados, from the
      utmost North-West. No Mirabeau now sits here, who had swallowed
      formulas: our only Mirabeau now is Danton, working as yet out of
      doors; whom some call “Mirabeau of the Sansculottes.”

      Nevertheless we have our gifts,—especially of speech and logic.
      An eloquent Vergniaud we have; most mellifluous yet most
      impetuous of public speakers; from the region named Gironde, of
      the Garonne: a man unfortunately of indolent habits; who will sit
      playing with your children, when he ought to be scheming and
      perorating. Sharp bustling Guadet; considerate grave Censonne;
      kind-sparkling mirthful young Ducos; Valazé doomed to a sad end:
      all these likewise are of that Gironde, or Bourdeaux region: men
      of fervid Constitutional principles; of quick talent,
      irrefragable logic, clear respectability; who will have the Reign
      of Liberty establish itself, but only by respectable methods.
      Round whom others of like temper will gather; known by and by as
      _Girondins_, to the sorrowing wonder of the world. Of which sort
      note Condorcet, Marquis and Philosopher; who has worked at much,
      at Paris Municipal Constitution, Differential Calculus, Newspaper
      _Chronique de Paris_, Biography, Philosophy; and now sits here as
      two-years Senator: a notable Condorcet, with stoical Roman face,
      and fiery heart; “volcano hid under snow;” styled likewise, in
      irreverent language, “_mouton enragé_,” peaceablest of creatures
      bitten rabid! Or note, lastly, Jean-Pierre Brissot; whom Destiny,
      long working noisily with him, has hurled hither, say, to have
      done with him. A biennial Senator he too; nay, for the present,
      the king of such. Restless, scheming, scribbling Brissot; who
      took to himself the style _de Warville_, heralds know not in the
      least why;—unless it were that the father of him did, in an
      unexceptionable manner, perform Cookery and Vintnery in the
      Village of _Ouar_ville? A man of the windmill species, that
      grinds always, turning towards all winds; not in the steadiest
      manner.

      In all these men there is talent, faculty to work; and they will
      do it: working and shaping, not _without_ effect, though alas not
      in marble, only in quicksand!—But the highest faculty of them all
      remains yet to be mentioned; or indeed has yet to unfold itself
      for mention: Captain Hippolyte Carnot, sent hither from the Pas
      de Calais; with his cold mathematical head, and silent
      stubbornness of will: iron Carnot, far-planning, imperturbable,
      unconquerable; who, in the hour of need, shall not be found
      wanting. His hair is yet black; and it shall grow grey, under
      many kinds of fortune, bright and troublous; and with iron aspect
      this man shall face them all.

      Nor is _Côté Droit_, and band of King’s friends, wanting:
      Vaublanc, Dumas, Jaucourt the honoured Chevalier; who love
      Liberty, yet with Monarchy over it; and speak fearlessly
      according to that faith;—whom the thick-coming hurricanes will
      sweep away. With them, let a new military Theodore Lameth be
      named;—were it only for his two Brothers’ sake, who look down on
      him, approvingly there, from the Old-Constituents’ Gallery.
      Frothy professing Pastorets, honey-mouthed conciliatory
      Lamourettes, and speechless nameless individuals sit plentiful,
      as Moderates, in the middle. Still less is a _Côté Gauche_
      wanting: extreme Left; sitting on the topmost benches, as if
      aloft on its speculatory Height or _Mountain_, which will become
      a practical fulminatory Height, and make the name of Mountain
      famous-infamous to all times and lands.

      Honour waits not on this Mountain; nor as yet even loud
      dishonour. Gifts it boasts not, nor graces, of speaking or of
      thinking; solely this one gift of assured faith, of audacity that
      will defy the Earth and the Heavens. Foremost here are the
      Cordelier Trio: hot Merlin from Thionville, hot Bazire, Attorneys
      both; Chabot, disfrocked Capuchin, skilful in agio. Lawyer
      Lacroix, who wore once as subaltern the single epaulette, has
      loud lungs and a hungry heart. There too is Couthon, little
      dreaming _what_ he is;—whom a sad chance has paralysed in the
      lower extremities. For, it seems, he sat once a whole night, not
      warm in his true love’s bower (who indeed was by law another’s),
      but sunken to the middle in a cold peat-bog, being hunted out;
      quaking for his life, in the cold quaking morass;[409] and goes
      now on crutches to the end. Cambon likewise, in whom slumbers
      undeveloped such a finance-talent for printing of Assignats;
      Father of Paper-money; who, in the hour of menace, shall utter
      this stern sentence, “War to the Manorhouse, peace to the Hut,
      _Guerre aux Châteaux, paix aux Chaumières!_”[410] Lecointre, the
      intrepid Draper of Versailles, is welcome here; known since the
      Opera-Repast and Insurrection of Women. Thuriot too; Elector
      Thuriot, who stood in the embrasures of the Bastille, and saw
      Saint-Antoine rising in mass; who has many other things to see.
      Last and grimmest of all note old Ruhl, with his brown dusky face
      and long white hair; of Alsatian Lutheran breed; a man whom age
      and book-learning have not taught; who, haranguing the old men of
      Rheims, shall hold up the Sacred _Ampulla_ (Heaven-sent,
      wherefrom Clovis and all Kings have been anointed) as a mere
      worthless oil-bottle, and dash it to sherds on the pavement
      there; who, alas, shall dash much to sherds, and finally his own
      wild head, by pistol-shot, and so end it.

      Such lava welters redhot in the bowels of this Mountain; unknown
      to the world and to itself! A mere commonplace Mountain hitherto;
      distinguished from the Plain chiefly by its superior
      _barrenness_, its baldness of look: at the utmost it may, to the
      most observant, perceptibly _smoke_. For as yet all lies so
      solid, peaceable; and doubts not, as was said, that it will
      endure while Time runs. Do not all love Liberty and the
      Constitution? All heartily;—and yet with degrees. Some, as
      Chevalier Jaucourt and his Right Side, may love Liberty less than
      Royalty, were the trial made; others, as Brissot and his Left
      Side, may love it more than Royalty. Nay again of these latter
      some may love Liberty more than Law itself; others not more.
      Parties _will_ unfold themselves; no mortal as yet knows how.
      Forces work within these men and without: dissidence grows
      opposition; ever widening; waxing into incompatibility and
      internecine feud: till the strong is abolished by a stronger;
      himself in his turn by a strongest! Who can help it? Jaucourt and
      his Monarchists, Feuillans, or Moderates; Brissot and his
      Brissotins, Jacobins, or Girondins; these, with the Cordelier
      Trio, and all men, must work what is appointed them, and in the
      way appointed them.

      And to think what fate these poor Seven Hundred and Forty-five
      are assembled, most unwittingly, to meet! Let no heart be so hard
      as not to pity them. Their soul’s wish was to live and work as
      the First of the French Parliaments: and make the Constitution
      march. Did they not, at their very instalment, go through the
      most affecting Constitutional ceremony, almost with tears? The
      Twelve Eldest are sent solemnly to fetch the Constitution itself,
      the printed book of the Law. Archivist Camus, an Old-Constituent
      appointed Archivist, he and the Ancient Twelve, amid blare of
      military pomp and clangour, enter, bearing the divine Book: and
      President and all Legislative Senators, laying their hand on the
      same, successively take the Oath, with cheers and heart-effusion,
      universal three-times-three.[411] In this manner they begin their
      Session. Unhappy mortals! For, that same day, his Majesty having
      received their Deputation of welcome, as seemed, rather drily,
      the Deputation cannot but feel slighted, cannot but lament such
      slight: and thereupon our cheering swearing First Parliament sees
      itself, on the morrow, obliged to explode into fierce retaliatory
      sputter, of anti-royal Enactment as to how they, for their part,
      will receive Majesty; and how Majesty shall not be called Sire
      any more, except they please: and then, on the following day, to
      recall this Enactment of theirs, as too hasty, and a mere sputter
      though not unprovoked.

      An effervescent well-intentioned set of Senators; too
      combustible, where continual sparks are flying! Their History is
      a series of sputters and quarrels; true desire to do their
      function, fatal impossibility to do it. Denunciations,
      reprimandings of King’s Ministers, of traitors supposed and real;
      hot rage and fulmination against fulminating Emigrants; terror of
      Austrian Kaiser, of “Austrian Committee” in the Tuileries itself:
      rage and haunting terror, haste and dim desperate
      bewilderment!—Haste, we say; and yet the Constitution had
      provided against haste. No Bill can be passed till it have been
      printed, till it have been thrice read, with intervals of eight
      days;—“unless the Assembly shall beforehand decree that there is
      urgency.” Which, accordingly, the Assembly, scrupulous of the
      Constitution, never omits to do: Considering this, and also
      considering that, and then that other, the Assembly decrees
      always “_qu’il y a urgence;_” and thereupon “the Assembly, having
      decreed that there is urgence,” is free to decree—what
      indispensable distracted thing seems best to it. Two thousand and
      odd decrees, as men reckon, within Eleven months![412] The haste
      of the Constituent seemed great; but this is treble-quick. For
      the time itself is rushing treble-quick; and they have to keep
      pace with that. Unhappy Seven Hundred and Forty-five:
      true-patriotic, but so combustible; being fired, they must needs
      fling fire: Senate of touchwood and rockets, in a world of
      smoke-storm, with sparks wind-driven continually flying!

      Or think, on the other hand, looking forward some months, of that
      scene they call _Baiser de Lamourette!_ The dangers of the
      country are now grown imminent, immeasurable; National Assembly,
      hope of France, is divided against itself. In such extreme
      circumstances, honey-mouthed Abbé Lamourette, new Bishop of
      Lyons, rises, whose name, _l’amourette_, signifies the
      _sweetheart_, or Delilah doxy,—he rises, and, with pathetic
      honied eloquence, calls on all august Senators to forget mutual
      griefs and grudges, to swear a new oath, and unite as brothers.
      Whereupon they all, with vivats, embrace and swear; Left Side
      confounding itself with Right; barren Mountain rushing down to
      fruitful Plain, Pastoret into the arms of Condorcet, injured to
      the breast of injurer, with tears; and all swearing that
      whosoever wishes either Feuillant Two-Chamber Monarchy or
      Extreme-Jacobin Republic, or any thing but the Constitution and
      that only, shall be anathema maranatha.[413] Touching to behold!
      For, literally on the morrow morning, they must again quarrel,
      driven by Fate; and their sublime reconcilement is called
      derisively _Baiser de L’amourette_, or Delilah Kiss.

      Like fated Eteocles-Polynices Brothers, embracing, though in
      vain; weeping that they must not love, that they must hate only,
      and die by each other’s hands! Or say, like doomed Familiar
      Spirits; ordered, by Art Magic under penalties, to do a harder
      than twist ropes of sand: “to make the Constitution march.” If
      the Constitution would but march! Alas, the Constitution will not
      stir. It falls on its face; they tremblingly lift it on end
      again: march, thou gold Constitution! The Constitution will not
      march.—‘He shall march, by—!’ said kind Uncle Toby, and even
      swore. The Corporal answered mournfully: ‘He will never march in
      this world.’

      A constitution, as we often say, will march when it images, if
      not the old Habits and Beliefs of the Constituted; then
      accurately their Rights, or better indeed, their Mights;—for
      these two, well-understood, are they not one and the same? The
      old Habits of France are gone: her new Rights and Mights are not
      yet ascertained, except in Paper-theorem; nor can be, in any
      sort, till she have _tried_. Till she have measured herself, in
      fell death-grip, and were it in utmost preternatural spasm of
      madness, with Principalities and Powers, with the upper and the
      under, internal and external; with the Earth and Tophet and the
      very Heaven! Then will she know.—Three things bode ill for the
      marching of this French Constitution: the French People; the
      French King; thirdly the French Noblesse and an assembled
      European World.


      Chapter 2.5.III.
      Avignon.

      But quitting generalities, what strange Fact is this, in the far
      South-West, towards which the eyes of all men do now, in the end
      of October, bend themselves? A tragical combustion, long smoking
      and smouldering unluminous, has now burst into flame there.

      Hot is that Southern Provençal blood: alas, collisions, as was
      once said, must occur in a career of Freedom; different
      directions will produce such; nay different _velocities_ in the
      same direction will! To much that went on there History, busied
      elsewhere, would not specially give heed: to troubles of Uzez,
      troubles of Nismes, Protestant and Catholic, Patriot and
      Aristocrat; to troubles of Marseilles, Montpelier, Arles; to
      Aristocrat Camp of Jalès, that wondrous real-imaginary Entity,
      now fading pale-dim, then always again glowing forth deep-hued
      (in the Imagination mainly);—ominous magical, “an Aristocrat
      _picture_ of war done naturally!” All this was a tragical deadly
      combustion, with plot and riot, tumult by night and by day; but a
      _dark_ combustion, not luminous, not noticed; which now, however,
      one cannot help noticing.

      Above all places, the unluminous combustion in Avignon and the
      Comtat Venaissin was fierce. Papal Avignon, with its Castle
      rising sheer over the Rhone-stream; beautifullest Town, with its
      purple vines and gold-orange groves: why must foolish old rhyming
      Réné, the last Sovereign of Provence, bequeath it to the Pope and
      Gold Tiara, not rather to Louis Eleventh with the Leaden Virgin
      in his hatband? For good and for evil! Popes, Anti-popes, with
      their pomp, have dwelt in that Castle of Avignon rising sheer
      over the Rhone-stream: there Laura de Sade went to hear mass; her
      Petrarch twanging and singing by the Fountain of Vaucluse hard
      by, surely in a most melancholy manner. This was in the old days.

      And now in these new days, such issues do come from a squirt of
      the pen by some foolish rhyming Réné, after centuries, this is
      what we have: Jourdan _Coupe-tête_, leading to siege and warfare
      an Army, from three to fifteen thousand strong, called the
      Brigands of Avignon; which title they themselves accept, with the
      addition of an epithet, “The _brave_ Brigands of Avignon!” It is
      even so. Jourdan the Headsman fled hither from that Chatelet
      Inquest, from that Insurrection of Women; and began dealing in
      madder; but the scene was rife in other than dye-stuffs; so
      Jourdan shut his madder shop, and has risen, for he was the man
      to do it. The tile-beard of Jourdan is shaven off; his fat visage
      has got coppered and studded with black carbuncles; the Silenus
      trunk is swollen with drink and high living: he wears blue
      National uniform with epaulettes, “an enormous sabre, two
      horse-pistols crossed in his belt, and other two smaller,
      sticking from his pockets;” styles himself General, and is the
      tyrant of men.[414] Consider this one fact, O Reader; and what
      sort of facts must have preceded it, must accompany it! Such
      things come of old Réné; and of the question which has risen,
      Whether Avignon cannot now cease wholly to be Papal and become
      French and free?

      For some twenty-five months the confusion has lasted. Say three
      months of arguing; then seven of raging; then finally some
      fifteen months now of fighting, and even of hanging. For already
      in February 1790, the Papal Aristocrats had set up four gibbets,
      for a sign; but the People rose in June, in retributive frenzy;
      and, forcing the public Hangman to act, hanged four Aristocrats,
      on each Papal gibbet a Papal Haman. Then were Avignon
      Emigrations, Papal Aristocrats emigrating over the Rhone River;
      demission of Papal Consul, flight, victory: re-entrance of Papal
      Legate, truce, and new onslaught; and the various turns of war.
      Petitions there were to National Assembly; Congresses of
      Townships; three-score and odd Townships voting for French
      Reunion, and the blessings of Liberty; while some twelve of the
      smaller, manipulated by Aristocrats, gave vote the other way:
      with shrieks and discord! Township against Township, Town against
      Town: Carpentras, long jealous of Avignon, is now turned out in
      open war with it;—and Jourdan _Coupe-tête_, your first General
      being killed in mutiny, closes his dye-shop; and does there
      visibly, with siege-artillery, above all with bluster and tumult,
      with the “brave Brigands of Avignon,” beleaguer the rival Town,
      for two months, in the face of the world!

      Feats were done, doubt it not, far-famed in Parish History; but
      to Universal History unknown. Gibbets we see rise, on the one
      side and on the other; and wretched carcasses swinging there, a
      dozen in the row; wretched Mayor of Vaison buried before
      dead.[415] The fruitful seedfield, lie unreaped, the vineyards
      trampled down; there is red cruelty, madness of universal choler
      and gall. Havoc and anarchy everywhere; a combustion most fierce,
      but _un_lucent, not to be noticed here!—Finally, as we saw, on
      the 14th of September last, the National Constituent Assembly,
      having sent Commissioners and heard them;[416] having heard
      Petitions, held Debates, month after month ever since August
      1789; and on the whole “spent thirty sittings” on this matter,
      did solemnly decree that Avignon and the Comtat were incorporated
      with France, and His Holiness the Pope should have what indemnity
      was reasonable.

      And so hereby all is amnestied and finished? Alas, when madness
      of choler has gone through the blood of men, and gibbets have
      swung on this side and on that, what will a parchment Decree and
      Lafayette Amnesty do? Oblivious Lethe flows not _above_ ground!
      Papal Aristocrats and Patriot Brigands are still an eye-sorrow to
      each other; suspected, suspicious, in what they do and forbear.
      The august Constituent Assembly is gone but a fortnight, when, on
      Sunday the Sixteenth morning of October 1791, the unquenched
      combustion suddenly becomes luminous! For Anti-constitutional
      Placards are up, and the Statue of the Virgin is said to have
      shed tears, and grown red.[417] Wherefore, on that morning,
      Patriot l’Escuyer, one of our “six leading Patriots,” having
      taken counsel with his brethren and General Jourdan, determines
      on going to Church, in company with a friend or two: not to hear
      mass, which he values little; but to meet all the Papalists there
      in a body, nay to meet that same weeping Virgin, for it is the
      Cordeliers Church; and give them a word of admonition.
      Adventurous errand; which has the fatallest issue! What
      L’Escuyer’s word of admonition might be no History records; but
      the answer to it was a shrieking howl from the Aristocrat Papal
      worshippers, many of them women. A thousand-voiced shriek and
      menace; which as L’Escuyer did not fly, became a thousand-handed
      hustle and jostle; a thousand-footed kick, with tumblings and
      tramplings, with the pricking of semstresses stilettos, scissors,
      and female pointed instruments. Horrible to behold; the ancient
      Dead, and Petrarchan Laura, sleeping round it there;[418] high
      Altar and burning tapers looking down on it; the Virgin quite
      tearless, and of the natural stone-colour!—L’Escuyer’s friend or
      two rush off, like Job’s Messengers, for Jourdan and the National
      Force. But heavy Jourdan will seize the Town-Gates first; does
      not run treble-fast, as he might: on arriving at the Cordeliers
      Church, the Church is silent, vacant; L’Escuyer, all alone, lies
      there, swimming in his blood, at the foot of the high Altar;
      pricked with scissors; trodden, massacred;—gives one dumb sob,
      and gasps out his miserable life for evermore.

      Sight to stir the heart of any man; much more of many men,
      self-styled Brigands of Avignon! The corpse of L’Escuyer,
      stretched on a bier, the ghastly head girt with laurel, is borne
      through the streets; with many-voiced unmelodious _Nenia;_
      funeral-wail still deeper than it is loud! The copper-face of
      Jourdan, of bereft Patriotism, has grown black. Patriot
      Municipality despatches official Narrative and tidings to Paris;
      orders numerous or innumerable arrestments for inquest and
      perquisition. Aristocrats male and female are haled to the
      Castle; lie crowded in subterranean dungeons there, bemoaned by
      the hoarse rushing of the Rhone; cut out from help.

      So lie they; waiting inquest and perquisition. Alas! with a
      Jourdan Headsman for Generalissimo, with his copper-face grown
      black, and armed Brigand Patriots chanting their _Nenia_, the
      inquest is likely to be brief. On the next day and the next, let
      Municipality consent or not, a Brigand Court-Martial establishes
      itself in the subterranean stories of the Castle of Avignon;
      Brigand Executioners, with naked sabre, waiting at the door, for
      a Brigand verdict. Short judgment, no appeal! There is Brigand
      wrath and vengeance; not unrefreshed by brandy. Close by is the
      Dungeon of the _Glacière_, or Ice-Tower: there may be deeds
      done—? For which language has no name!—Darkness and the shadow of
      horrid cruelty envelopes these Castle Dungeons, that _Glacière_
      Tower: clear only that many have entered, that few have returned.
      Jourdan and the Brigands, supreme now over Municipals, over all
      Authorities Patriot or Papal, reign in Avignon, waited on by
      Terror and Silence.

      The result of all which is that, on the 15th of November 1791, we
      behold Friend Dampmartin, and subalterns beneath him, and General
      Choisi above him, with Infantry and Cavalry, and proper
      cannon-carriages rattling in front, with spread banners, to the
      sound of fife and drum, wend, in a deliberate formidable manner,
      towards that sheer Castle Rock, towards those broad Gates of
      Avignon; three new National-Assembly Commissioners following at
      safe distance in the rear.[419] Avignon, summoned in the name of
      Assembly and Law, flings its Gates wide open; Choisi with the
      rest, Dampmartin and the _Bons Enfans_, “Good Boys of
      _Baufremont_,” so they name these brave Constitutional Dragoons,
      known to them of old,—do enter, amid shouts and scattered
      flowers. To the joy of all honest persons; to the terror only of
      Jourdan Headsman and the Brigands. Nay next we behold carbuncled
      swollen Jourdan himself shew copper-face, with sabre and four
      pistols; affecting to talk high: engaging, meanwhile, to
      surrender the Castle that instant. So the Choisi Grenadiers enter
      with him there. They start and stop, passing that _Glacière_,
      snuffing its horrible breath; with wild yell, with cries of ‘Cut
      the Butcher down!’—and Jourdan has to whisk himself through
      secret passages, and instantaneously vanish.

      Be the mystery of iniquity laid bare then! A Hundred and Thirty
      Corpses, of men, nay of women and even children (for the
      trembling mother, hastily seized, could not leave her infant),
      lie heaped in that _Glacière;_ putrid, under putridities: the
      horror of the world. For three days there is mournful lifting
      out, and recognition; amid the cries and movements of a
      passionate Southern people, now kneeling in prayer, now storming
      in wild pity and rage: lastly there is solemn sepulture, with
      muffled drums, religious requiem, and all the people’s wail and
      tears. Their Massacred rest now in holy ground; buried in one
      grave.

      And Jourdan _Coupe-tête?_ Him also we behold again, after a day
      or two: in flight, through the most romantic Petrarchan
      hill-country; vehemently spurring his nag; young Ligonnet, a
      brisk youth of Avignon, with Choisi Dragoons, close in his rear!
      With such swollen mass of a rider no nag can run to advantage.
      The tired nag, spur-driven, does take the River Sorgue; but
      sticks in the middle of it; firm on that _chiaro fondo di Sorga;_
      and will proceed no further for spurring! Young Ligonnet dashes
      up; the Copper-face menaces and bellows, draws pistol, perhaps
      even snaps it; is nevertheless seized by the collar; is tied
      firm, ancles under horse’s belly, and ridden back to Avignon,
      hardly to be saved from massacre on the streets there.[420]

      Such is the combustion of Avignon and the South-West, when it
      becomes luminous! Long loud debate is in the august Legislative,
      in the Mother-Society as to what now shall be done with it.
      Amnesty, cry eloquent Vergniaud and all Patriots: let there be
      mutual pardon and repentance, restoration, pacification, and if
      so might any how be, an end! Which vote ultimately prevails. So
      the South-West smoulders and welters again in an “Amnesty,” or
      Non-remembrance, which alas cannot but remember, no Lethe flowing
      above ground! Jourdan himself remains unchanged; gets loose again
      as one not yet gallows-ripe; nay, as we transciently discern from
      the distance, is “carried in triumph through the cities of the
      South.”[421] What things men carry!

      With which transient glimpse, of a Copper-faced Portent faring in
      this manner through the cities of the South, we must quit these
      regions;—and let them smoulder. They want not their Aristocrats;
      proud old Nobles, not yet emigrated. Arles has its “_Chiffonne_,”
      so, in symbolical cant, they name that Aristocrat
      Secret-Association; Arles has its pavements piled up, by and by,
      into Aristocrat barricades. Against which Rebecqui, the hot-clear
      Patriot, must lead Marseilles with cannon. The Bar of Iron has
      not yet risen to the top in the Bay of Marseilles; neither have
      these hot Sons of the Phoceans submitted to be slaves. By clear
      management and hot instance, Rebecqui dissipates that
      _Chiffonne_, without bloodshed; restores the pavement of Arles.
      He sails in Coast-barks, this Rebecqui, scrutinising suspicious
      Martello-towers, with the keen eye of Patriotism; marches
      overland with despatch, singly, or in force; to City after City;
      dim scouring far and wide;[422]—argues, and if it must be,
      fights. For there is much to do; Jalès itself is looking
      suspicious. So that Legislator Fauchet, after debate on it, has
      to propose Commissioners and a Camp on the Plain of Beaucaire:
      with or without result.

      Of all which, and much else, let us note only this small
      consequence, that young Barbaroux, Advocate, Town-Clerk of
      Marseilles, being charged to have these things remedied, arrived
      at Paris in the month of February 1792. The beautiful and brave:
      young Spartan, ripe in energy, not ripe in wisdom; over whose
      black doom there shall flit nevertheless a certain ruddy fervour,
      streaks of bright Southern tint, not wholly swallowed of Death!
      Note also that the Rolands of Lyons are again in Paris; for the
      second and final time. King’s Inspectorship is abrogated at
      Lyons, as elsewhere: Roland has his retiring-pension to claim, if
      attainable; has Patriot friends to commune with; at lowest, has a
      book to publish. That young Barbaroux and the Rolands came
      together; that elderly Spartan Roland liked, or even loved the
      young Spartan, and was loved by him, one can fancy: and Madame—?
      Breathe not, thou poison-breath, Evil-speech! That soul is
      taintless, clear, as the mirror-sea. And yet if they too did look
      into each other’s eyes, and each, in silence, in tragical
      renunciance, did find that the other was all too lovely? _Honi
      soit!_ She calls him “beautiful as Antinous:” he “will speak
      elsewhere of that astonishing woman.”—A Madame d’Udon (or some
      such name, for Dumont does not recollect quite clearly) gives
      copious Breakfast to the Brissotin Deputies and us Friends of
      Freedom, at her house in the Place Vendôme; with temporary
      celebrity, with graces and wreathed smiles; not without cost.
      There, amid wide babble and jingle, our plan of Legislative
      Debate is settled for the day, and much counselling held. Strict
      Roland is seen there, but does not go often.[423]


      Chapter 2.5.IV.
      No Sugar.

      Such are our inward troubles; seen in the Cities of the South;
      extant, seen or unseen, in all cities and districts, North as
      well as South. For in all are Aristocrats, more or less
      malignant; watched by Patriotism; which again, being of various
      shades, from light Fayettist-Feuillant down to deep-sombre
      Jacobin, has to watch _itself!_

      Directories of Departments, what we call County Magistracies,
      being chosen by Citizens of a too “active” class, are found to
      pull one way; Municipalities, Town Magistracies, to pull the
      other way. In all places too are Dissident Priests; whom the
      Legislative will have to deal with: contumacious individuals,
      working on that angriest of passions; plotting, enlisting for
      Coblentz; or suspected of plotting: fuel of a universal
      unconstitutional heat. What to do with them? They may be
      conscientious as well as contumacious: gently they should be
      dealt with, and yet it must be speedily. In unilluminated La
      Vendée the simple are like to be seduced by them; many a simple
      peasant, a Cathelineau the wool-dealer wayfaring meditative with
      his wool-packs, in these hamlets, dubiously shakes his head! Two
      Assembly Commissioners went thither last Autumn; considerate
      Gensonné, not yet called to be a Senator; Gallois, an editorial
      man. These Two, consulting with General Dumouriez, spake and
      worked, softly, with judgment; they have hushed down the
      irritation, and produced a soft Report,—for the time.

      The General himself doubts not in the least but he can keep peace
      there; being an able man. He passes these frosty months among the
      pleasant people of Niort, occupies “tolerably handsome apartments
      in the Castle of Niort,” and tempers the minds of men.[424] Why
      is there but one Dumouriez? Elsewhere you find South or North,
      nothing but untempered obscure jarring; which breaks forth ever
      and anon into open clangour of riot. Southern Perpignan has its
      tocsin, by torch light; with rushing and onslaught: Northern Caen
      not less, by daylight; with Aristocrats ranged in arms at Places
      of Worship; Departmental compromise proving impossible; breaking
      into musketry and a Plot discovered![425] Add Hunger too: for
      Bread, always dear, is getting dearer: not so much as Sugar can
      be had; for good reasons. Poor Simoneau, Mayor of Etampes, in
      this Northern region, hanging out his Red Flag in some riot of
      grains, is trampled to death by a hungry exasperated People. What
      a trade this of Mayor, in these times! Mayor of Saint-Denis hung
      at the Lanterne, by Suspicion and Dyspepsia, as we saw long
      since; Mayor of Vaison, as we saw lately, buried before dead; and
      now this poor Simoneau, the Tanner, of Etampes,—whom legal
      Constitutionalism will not forget.

      With factions, suspicions, want of bread and sugar, it is verily
      what they call _déchiré_, torn asunder this poor country: France
      and all that is French. For, over seas too come bad news. In
      black Saint-Domingo, before that variegated Glitter in the Champs
      Elysées was lit for an Accepted Constitution, there had risen,
      and was burning contemporary with it, quite another variegated
      Glitter and nocturnal Fulgor, had we known it: of molasses and
      ardent-spirits; of sugar-boileries, plantations, furniture,
      cattle and men: skyhigh; the Plain of Cap Français one huge whirl
      of smoke and flame!

      What a change here, in these two years; since that first “Box of
      Tricolor Cockades” got through the Custom-house, and atrabiliar
      Creoles too rejoiced that there was a levelling of Bastilles!
      Levelling is comfortable, as we often say: levelling, yet only
      down to oneself. Your pale-white Creoles, have their
      grievances:—and your yellow Quarteroons? And your dark-yellow
      Mulattoes? And your Slaves soot-black? Quarteroon Ogé, Friend of
      our Parisian Brissotin _Friends of the Blacks_, felt, for his
      share too, that Insurrection was the most sacred of duties. So
      the tricolor Cockades had fluttered and swashed only some three
      months on the Creole hat, when Ogé’s signal-conflagrations went
      aloft; with the voice of rage and terror. Repressed, doomed to
      die, he took black powder or seedgrains in the hollow of his
      hand, this Ogé; sprinkled a film of white ones on the top, and
      said to his Judges, ‘Behold they are white;’—then _shook_ his
      hand, and said ‘Where are the Whites, _Où sont les Blancs?_’

      So now, in the Autumn of 1791, looking from the sky-windows of
      Cap Français, thick clouds of smoke girdle our horizon, smoke in
      the day, in the night fire; preceded by fugitive shrieking white
      women, by Terror and Rumour. Black demonised squadrons are
      massacring and harrying, with nameless cruelty. They fight and
      fire “from behind thickets and coverts,” for the Black man loves
      the Bush; they rush to the attack, thousands strong, with
      brandished cutlasses and fusils, with caperings, shoutings and
      vociferation,—which, if the White Volunteer Company stands firm,
      dwindle into staggerings, into quick gabblement, into panic
      flight at the first volley, perhaps before it.[426] Poor Ogé
      could be broken on the wheel; this fire-whirlwind too can be
      abated, driven up into the Mountains: but Saint-Domingo is
      _shaken_, as Ogé’s seedgrains were; shaking, writhing in long
      horrid death-throes, it is Black without remedy; and remains, as
      African Haiti, a monition to the world.

      O my Parisian Friends, is not _this_, as well as Regraters and
      Feuillant Plotters, one cause of the astonishing dearth of Sugar!
      The Grocer, palpitant, with drooping lip, sees his Sugar _taxé;_
      weighed out by Female Patriotism, in instant retail, at the
      inadequate rate of twenty-five sous, or thirteen pence a pound.
      ‘Abstain from it?’ yes, ye Patriot Sections, all ye Jacobins,
      abstain! Louvet and Collot-d’Herbois so advise; resolute to make
      the sacrifice: though ‘how shall literary men do without coffee?’
      Abstain, with an oath; that is the surest![427]

      Also, for like reason, must not Brest and the Shipping Interest
      languish? Poor Brest languishes, sorrowing, not without spleen;
      denounces an Aristocrat Bertrand-Moleville traitorous Aristocrat
      Marine-Minister. Do not her Ships and King’s Ships lie rotting
      piecemeal in harbour; Naval Officers mostly fled, and on furlough
      too, with pay? Little stirring there; if it be not the Brest
      Gallies, whip-driven, with their Galley-Slaves,—alas, with some
      Forty of our hapless Swiss Soldiers of Château-Vieux, among
      others! These Forty Swiss, too mindful of Nanci, do now, in their
      red wool caps, tug sorrowfully at the oar; looking into the
      Atlantic brine, which reflects only their own sorrowful shaggy
      faces; and seem forgotten of Hope.

      But, on the whole, may we not say, in fugitive language, that the
      French Constitution which shall march is very _rheumatic_, full
      of shooting internal pains, in joint and muscle; and will not
      march without difficulty?


      Chapter 2.5.V.
      Kings and Emigrants.

      Extremely rheumatic Constitutions have been known to march, and
      keep on their feet, though in a staggering sprawling manner, for
      long periods, in virtue of one thing only: that the _Head_ were
      healthy. But this Head of the French Constitution! What King
      Louis is and cannot help being, Readers already know. A King who
      cannot take the Constitution, nor reject the Constitution: nor do
      anything at all, but miserably ask, What shall I do? A King
      environed with endless confusions; in whose own mind is no germ
      of order. Haughty implacable remnants of Noblesse struggling with
      humiliated repentant Barnave-Lameths: struggling in that obscure
      element of fetchers and carriers, of Half-pay braggarts from the
      Café Valois, of Chambermaids, whisperers, and subaltern officious
      persons; fierce Patriotism looking on all the while, more and
      more suspicious, from without: what, in such struggle, can they
      do? At best, _cancel_ one another, and produce _zero_. Poor King!
      Barnave and your Senatorial Jaucourts speak earnestly into this
      ear; Bertrand-Moleville, and Messengers from Coblentz, speak
      earnestly into that: the poor Royal head turns to the one side
      and to the other side; can turn itself fixedly to no side. Let
      Decency drop a veil over it: sorrier misery was seldom enacted in
      the world. This one small fact, does it not throw the saddest
      light on much? The Queen is lamenting to Madam Campan: ‘What am I
      to do? When they, these Barnaves, get us advised to any step
      which the Noblesse do not like, then I am pouted at; nobody comes
      to my card table; the King’s Couchée is solitary.’[428] In such a
      case of dubiety, what _is_ one to do? Go inevitably to the
      ground!

      The King has accepted this Constitution, knowing beforehand that
      it will not serve: he studies it, and executes it in the hope
      mainly that it will be found inexecutable. King’s Ships lie
      rotting in harbour, their officers gone; the Armies disorganised;
      robbers scour the highways, which wear down unrepaired; all
      Public Service lies slack and waste: the Executive makes no
      effort, or an effort only to throw the blame on the Constitution.
      Shamming death, “_faisant le mort!_” What Constitution, use it in
      this manner, can march? “Grow to disgust the Nation” it will
      truly,[429]—unless _you_ first grow to disgust the Nation! It is
      Bertrand de Moleville’s plan, and his Majesty’s; the best they
      can form.

      Or if, after all, this best-plan proved too slow; proved a
      failure? Provident of that too, the Queen, shrouded in deepest
      mystery, “writes all day, in cipher, day after day, to Coblentz;”
      Engineer Goguelat, he of the _Night of Spurs_, whom the Lafayette
      Amnesty has delivered from Prison, rides and runs. Now and then,
      on fit occasion, a Royal familiar visit can be paid to that Salle
      de Manége, an affecting encouraging Royal Speech (sincere, doubt
      it not, for the moment) can be delivered there, and the Senators
      all cheer and almost weep;—at the same time Mallet du Pan has
      visibly ceased editing, and invisibly bears abroad a King’s
      Autograph, soliciting help from the Foreign Potentates.[430]
      Unhappy Louis, _do_ this thing or else that other,—if thou
      couldst!

      The thing which the King’s Government did do was to stagger
      distractedly from contradiction to contradiction; and wedding
      Fire to Water, envelope itself in hissing, and ashy steam! Danton
      and needy corruptible Patriots are sopped with presents of cash:
      they accept the sop: they rise refreshed by it, and travel their
      own way.[431] Nay, the King’s Government did likewise hire
      Hand-clappers, or _claqueurs_, persons to applaud. Subterranean
      Rivarol has Fifteen Hundred men in King’s pay, at the rate of
      some ten thousand pounds sterling per month; what he calls “a
      staff of genius:” Paragraph-writers, Placard-Journalists; “two
      hundred and eighty Applauders, at three shillings a day:” one of
      the strangest Staffs ever commanded by man. The muster-rolls and
      account-books of which still exist.[432] Bertrand-Moleville
      himself, in a way he thinks very dexterous, contrives to pack the
      Galleries of the Legislative; gets Sansculottes hired to go
      thither, and applaud at a signal given, they fancying it was
      Pétion that bid them: a device which was not detected for almost
      a week. Dexterous enough; as if a man finding the Day fast
      decline should determine on altering the Clockhands: _that_ is a
      thing possible for him.

      Here too let us note an unexpected apparition of Philippe
      d’Orléans at Court: his last at the Levee of any King. D’Orléans,
      sometime in the winter months seemingly, has been appointed to
      that old first-coveted rank of Admiral,—though only over ships
      rotting in port. The wished-for comes too late! However, he waits
      on Bertrand-Moleville to give thanks: nay to state that he would
      willingly thank his Majesty in person; that, in spite of all the
      horrible things men have said and sung, he is far from being his
      Majesty’s enemy; at bottom, how far! Bertrand delivers the
      message, brings about the royal Interview, which does pass to the
      satisfaction of his Majesty; d’Orléans seeming clearly repentant,
      determined to turn over a new leaf. And yet, next Sunday, what do
      we see? “Next Sunday,” says Bertrand, “he came to the King’s
      Levee; but the Courtiers ignorant of what had passed, the crowd
      of Royalists who were accustomed to resort thither on that day
      specially to pay their court, gave him the most humiliating
      reception. They came pressing round him; managing, as if by
      mistake, to tread on his toes, to elbow him towards the door, and
      not let him enter again. He went downstairs to her Majesty’s
      Apartments, where cover was laid; so soon as he shewed face,
      sounds rose on all sides, ‘_Messieurs, take care of the dishes_,’
      as if he had carried poison in his pockets. The insults which his
      presence every where excited forced him to retire without having
      seen the Royal Family: the crowd followed him to the Queen’s
      Staircase; in descending, he received a spitting (_crachat_) on
      the head, and some others, on his clothes. Rage and spite were
      seen visibly painted on his face:”[433] as indeed how could they
      miss to be? He imputes it all to the King and Queen, who know
      nothing of it, who are even much grieved at it; and so descends,
      to his Chaos again. Bertrand was there at the Château that day
      himself, and an eye-witness to these things.

      For the rest, Non-jurant Priests, and the repression of them,
      will distract the King’s conscience; Emigrant Princes and
      Noblesse will force him to double-dealing: there must be _veto_
      on _veto;_ amid the ever-waxing indignation of men. For
      Patriotism, as we said, looks on from without, more and more
      suspicious. Waxing tempest, blast after blast, of Patriot
      indignation, from without; dim inorganic whirl of Intrigues,
      Fatuities, within! Inorganic, fatuous; from which the eye turns
      away. De Staël intrigues for her so gallant Narbonne, to get him
      made War-Minister; and ceases not, having got him made. The King
      shall fly to Rouen; shall there, with the gallant Narbonne,
      properly “modify the Constitution.” This is the same brisk
      Narbonne, who, last year, cut out from their entanglement, by
      force of dragoons, those poor fugitive Royal Aunts: men say he is
      at bottom their Brother, or even _more_, so scandalous is
      scandal. He drives now, with his de Staël, rapidly to the Armies,
      to the Frontier Towns; produces rose-coloured Reports, not too
      credible; perorates, gesticulates; wavers poising himself on the
      top, for a moment, seen of men; then tumbles, dismissed, washed
      away by the Time-flood.

      Also the fair Princess de Lamballe intrigues, bosom friend of her
      Majesty: to the angering of Patriotism. Beautiful Unfortunate,
      why did she ever return from England? Her small silver-voice,
      what can it profit in that piping of the black World-tornado?
      Which will whirl _her_, poor fragile Bird of Paradise, against
      grim rocks. Lamballe and de Staël intrigue visibly, apart or
      together: but who shall reckon how many others, and in what
      infinite ways, invisibly! Is there not what one may call an
      “Austrian Committee,” sitting invisible in the Tuileries; centre
      of an invisible Anti-National Spiderweb, which, for we sleep
      among mysteries, stretches its threads to the ends of the Earth?
      Journalist Carra has now the clearest certainty of it: to
      Brissotin Patriotism, and France generally, it is growing more
      and more probable.

      O Reader, hast thou no pity for this Constitution? Rheumatic
      shooting pains in its members; pressure of hydrocephale and
      hysteric vapours on its Brain: a Constitution divided against
      itself; which will never march, hardly even stagger? Why were not
      Drouet and Procureur Sausse in their beds, that unblessed
      Varennes Night! Why did they not, in the name of Heaven, let the
      Korff Berline go whither it listed! Nameless incoherency,
      incompatibility, perhaps prodigies at which the world still
      shudders, had been spared.

      But now comes the third thing that bodes ill for the marching of
      this French Constitution: besides the French People, and the
      French King, there is thirdly—the assembled European world? it
      has become necessary now to look at that also. Fair France is so
      luminous: and round and round it, is troublous Cimmerian Night.
      Calonnes, Bréteuils hover dim, far-flown; overnetting Europe with
      intrigues. From Turin to Vienna; to Berlin, and utmost Petersburg
      in the frozen North! Great Burke has raised his great voice long
      ago; eloquently demonstrating that the end of an Epoch is come,
      to all appearance the end of Civilised Time. Him many answer:
      Camille Desmoulins, Clootz Speaker of Mankind, Paine the
      rebellious Needleman, and honourable Gallic Vindicators in that
      country and in this: but the great Burke remains unanswerable;
      “The Age of Chivalry _is_ gone,” and could not but go, having now
      produced the still more indomitable Age of Hunger. Altars enough,
      of the Dubois-Rohan sort, changing to the Gobel-and-Talleyrand
      sort, are faring by rapid transmutation to, shall we say, the
      right Proprietor of them? French Game and French Game-Preservers
      did alight on the Cliffs of Dover, with cries of distress. Who
      will say that the end of much is not come? A set of mortals has
      risen, who believe that Truth is not a printed Speculation, but a
      practical Fact; that Freedom and Brotherhood are possible in this
      Earth, supposed always to be Belial’s, which “the Supreme Quack”
      was to inherit! Who will say that Church, State, Throne, Altar
      are not in danger; that the sacred Strong-box itself, last
      Palladium of effete Humanity, may not be blasphemously blown
      upon, and its padlocks undone?

      The poor Constituent Assembly might act with what delicacy and
      diplomacy it would; declare that it abjured meddling with its
      neighbours, foreign conquest, and so forth; but from the first
      this thing was to be predicted: that old Europe and new France
      could not subsist _together_. A Glorious Revolution, oversetting
      State-Prisons and Feudalism; publishing, with outburst of
      Federative Cannon, in face of all the Earth, that Appearance is
      not Reality, how shall it subsist amid Governments which, if
      Appearance is _not_ Reality, are—one knows not what? In death
      feud, and internecine wrestle and battle, it shall subsist with
      them; not otherwise.

      Rights of Man, printed on Cotton Handkerchiefs, in various
      dialects of human speech, pass over to the Frankfort Fair.[434]
      What say we, Frankfort Fair? They have crossed Euphrates and the
      fabulous Hydaspes; wafted themselves beyond the Ural, Altai,
      Himmalayah: struck off from wood stereotypes, in angular
      Picture-writing, they are jabbered and jingled of in China and
      Japan. Where will it stop? Kien-Lung smells mischief; not the
      remotest Dalai-Lama shall now knead his dough-pills in
      peace.—Hateful to us; as is the Night! Bestir yourselves, ye
      Defenders of Order! They do bestir themselves: all Kings and
      Kinglets, with their spiritual temporal array, are astir; their
      brows clouded with menace. Diplomatic emissaries fly swift;
      Conventions, privy Conclaves assemble; and wise wigs wag, taking
      what counsel they can.

      Also, as we said, the Pamphleteer draws pen, on this side and
      that: zealous fists beat the Pulpit-drum. Not without issue! Did
      not iron Birmingham, shouting “Church and King,” itself knew not
      why, burst out, last July, into rage, drunkenness, and fire; and
      your Priestleys, and the like, dining there on that Bastille day,
      get the maddest singeing: scandalous to consider! In which same
      days, as we can remark, high Potentates, Austrian and Prussian,
      with Emigrants, were faring towards Pilnitz in Saxony; there, on
      the 27th of August, they, keeping to themselves what further
      “secret Treaty” there might or might not be, did publish their
      hopes and their threatenings, their Declaration that it was “the
      common cause of Kings.”

      Where a will to quarrel is, there is a way. Our readers remember
      that Pentecost-Night, Fourth of August 1789, when Feudalism fell
      in a few hours? The National Assembly, in abolishing Feudalism,
      promised that “compensation” should be given; and did endeavour
      to give it. Nevertheless the Austrian Kaiser answers that his
      German Princes, for their part, cannot be unfeudalised; that they
      have Possessions in French Alsace, and Feudal Rights secured to
      them, for which no conceivable compensation will suffice. So this
      of the Possessioned Princes, “_Princes Possessionés_” is bandied
      from Court to Court; covers acres of diplomatic paper at this
      day: a weariness to the world. Kaunitz argues from Vienna;
      Delessart responds from Paris, though perhaps not sharply enough.
      The Kaiser and his Possessioned Princes will too evidently come
      and _take_ compensation—so much as they can get. Nay might one
      not _partition_ France, as we have done Poland, and are doing;
      and so pacify it with a vengeance?

      From South to North! For actually it is “the common cause of
      Kings.” Swedish Gustav, sworn Knight of the Queen of France, will
      lead Coalised Armies;—had not Ankarstrom treasonously shot him;
      for, indeed, there were griefs nearer home.[435] Austria and
      Prussia speak at Pilnitz; all men intensely listening: Imperial
      Rescripts have gone out from Turin; there will be secret
      Convention at Vienna. Catherine of Russia beckons approvingly;
      will help, were she ready. Spanish Bourbon stirs amid his
      pillows; from him too, even from him, shall there come help. Lean
      Pitt, “the Minister of Preparatives,” looks out from his
      watch-tower in Saint-James’s, in a suspicious manner. Councillors
      plotting, Calonnes dim-hovering;—alas, Serjeants rub-a-dubbing
      openly through all manner of German market-towns, collecting
      ragged valour![436] Look where you will, immeasurable
      Obscurantism is girdling this fair France; which, again, will not
      be girdled by it. Europe is in travail; pang after pang; what a
      shriek was that of Pilnitz! The birth will be: WAR.

      Nay the worst feature of the business is this last, still to be
      named; the Emigrants at Coblentz, so many thousands ranking
      there, in bitter hate and menace: King’s Brothers, all Princes of
      the Blood except wicked d’Orléans; your duelling de Castries,
      your eloquent Cazalès; bull-headed Malseignes, a wargod Broglie;
      Distaff Seigneurs, insulted Officers, all that have ridden across
      the Rhine-stream;—d’Artois welcoming Abbé Maury with a kiss, and
      clasping him publicly to his own royal heart! Emigration, flowing
      over the Frontiers, now in drops, now in streams, in various
      humours of fear, of petulance, rage and hope, ever since those
      first Bastille days when d’Artois went, “to shame the citizens of
      Paris,”—has swollen to the size of a Phenomenon of the world.
      Coblentz is become a small extra-national Versailles; a
      Versailles _in partibus:_ briguing, intriguing, favouritism,
      strumpetocracy itself, they say, goes on there; all the old
      activities, on a small scale, quickened by hungry Revenge.

      Enthusiasm, of loyalty, of hatred and hope, has risen to a high
      pitch; as, in any Coblentz tavern, you may hear, in speech, and
      in singing. Maury assists in the interior Council; much is
      decided on; for one thing, they keep lists of the dates of your
      emigrating; a month sooner, or a month later determines your
      greater or your less right to the coming Division of the Spoil.
      Cazalès himself, because he had occasionally spoken with a
      Constitutional tone, was looked on coldly at first: so pure are
      our principles.[437] And arms are a-hammering at Liège; “three
      thousand horses” ambling hitherward from the Fairs of Germany:
      Cavalry enrolling; likewise Foot-soldiers, “in blue coat, red
      waistcoat, and nankeen trousers!”[438] They have their secret
      domestic correspondences, as their open foreign: with disaffected
      Crypto-Aristocrats, with contumacious Priests, with Austrian
      Committee in the Tuileries. Deserters are spirited over by
      assiduous crimps; Royal-Allemand is gone almost wholly. Their
      route of march, towards France and the Division of the Spoil, is
      marked out, were the Kaiser once ready. ‘It is said, they mean to
      poison the sources; but,’ adds Patriotism making Report of it,
      ‘they will not poison the source of Liberty,’ whereat “_on
      applaudit_,” we cannot but applaud. Also they have manufactories
      of False Assignats; and men that circulate in the interior
      distributing and disbursing the same; one of these we denounce
      now to Legislative Patriotism: “A man Lebrun by name; about
      thirty years of age, with blonde hair and in quantity; has,” only
      for the time being surely, “a black-eye, _œil poché;_ goes in a
      _wiski_ with a black horse,”[439]—always keeping his Gig!

      Unhappy Emigrants, it was their lot, and the lot of France! They
      are ignorant of much that they should know: of themselves, of
      what is around them. A Political Party that knows not _when it is
      beaten_, may become one of the fatallist of things, to itself,
      and to all. Nothing will convince these men that they cannot
      scatter the French Revolution at the first blast of their
      war-trumpet; that the French Revolution is other than a
      blustering Effervescence, of brawlers and spouters, which, at the
      flash of chivalrous broadswords, at the rustle of gallows-ropes,
      will burrow itself, in dens the deeper the welcomer. But, alas,
      what man does know and measure himself, and the things that are
      round him;—else where were the need of physical fighting at all?
      Never, till they are cleft asunder, can these heads believe that
      a Sansculottic arm has any vigour in it: cleft asunder, it will
      be too late to believe.

      One may say, without spleen against his poor erring brothers of
      any side, that above all other mischiefs, this of the Emigrant
      Nobles acted fatally on France. Could they have known, could they
      have understood! In the beginning of 1789, a splendour and a
      terror still surrounded them: the Conflagration of their
      Châteaus, kindled by months of obstinacy, went out after the
      Fourth of August; and might have continued out, had they at all
      known what to defend, what to relinquish as indefensible. They
      were still a graduated Hierarchy of Authorities, or the
      accredited Similitude of such: they sat there, uniting King with
      Commonalty; transmitting and translating _gradually_, from degree
      to degree, the command of the one into the obedience of the
      other; rendering command and obedience still possible. Had they
      understood their place, and what to do in it, this French
      Revolution, which went forth explosively in years and in months,
      might have spread itself over generations; and not a
      torture-death but a quiet euthanasia have been provided for many
      things.

      But they were proud and high, these men; they were not wise to
      consider. They spurned all from them; in disdainful hate, they
      drew the sword and flung away the scabbard. France has not only
      no Hierarchy of Authorities, to translate command into obedience;
      its Hierarchy of Authorities has fled to the enemies of France;
      calls loudly on the enemies of France to interfere armed, who
      want but a pretext to do that. Jealous Kings and Kaisers might
      have looked on long, meditating interference, yet afraid and
      ashamed to interfere: but now do not the King’s Brothers, and all
      French Nobles, Dignitaries and Authorities that are free to
      speak, which the King himself is not,—passionately invite us, in
      the name of Right and of Might? Ranked at Coblentz, from Fifteen
      to Twenty thousand stand now brandishing their weapons, with the
      cry: On, on! Yes, Messieurs, you shall on;—and divide the spoil
      according to your dates of emigrating.

      Of all which things a poor Legislative Assembly, and Patriot
      France, is informed: by denunciant friend, by triumphant foe.
      Sulleau’s Pamphlets, of the Rivarol Staff of Genius, circulate;
      heralding supreme hope. Durosoy’s Placards tapestry the walls;
      _Chant du Coq_ crows day, pecked at by Tallien’s _Ami des
      Citoyens_. King’s-Friend, Royou, _Ami du Roi_, can name, in exact
      arithmetical ciphers, the contingents of the various Invading
      Potentates; in all, Four hundred and nineteen thousand Foreign
      fighting men, with Fifteen thousand Emigrants. Not to reckon
      these your daily and hourly desertions, which an Editor must
      daily record, of whole Companies, and even Regiments, crying
      _Vive le Roi, Vive la Reine_, and marching over with banners
      spread:[440]—lies all, and wind; yet to Patriotism not wind; nor,
      alas, one day, to Royou! Patriotism, therefore, may brawl and
      babble yet a little while: but its hours are numbered: Europe is
      coming with Four hundred and nineteen thousand and the Chivalry
      of France; the gallows, one may hope, will get its own.


      Chapter 2.5.VI.
      Brigands and Jalès.

      We shall have War, then; and on what terms! With an Executive
      “pretending,” really with less and less deceptiveness now, “to be
      dead;” casting even a wishful eye towards the enemy: on such
      terms we shall have War.

      Public Functionary in vigorous action there is none; if it be not
      Rivarol with his Staff of Genius and Two hundred and eighty
      Applauders. The Public Service lies waste: the very tax-gatherer
      has forgotten his cunning: in this and the other Provincial Board
      of Management (_Directoire de Départment_) it is found advisable
      to _retain_ what Taxes you can gather, to pay your own inevitable
      expenditures. Our Revenue is Assignats; emission on emission of
      Paper-money. And the Army; our Three grand Armies, of Rochambeau,
      of Lückner, of Lafayette? Lean, disconsolate hover these Three
      grand Armies, watching the Frontiers there; three Flights of
      long-necked Cranes in moulting time;—wretched, disobedient,
      disorganised; who never saw fire; the old Generals and Officers
      gone across the Rhine. War-minister Narbonne, he of the
      rose-coloured Reports, solicits recruitments, equipments, money,
      always money; threatens, since he can get none,—to “take his
      sword,” which belongs to himself, and go serve his country with
      that.[441]

      The question of questions is: What shall be done? Shall we, with
      a desperate defiance which Fortune sometimes favours, draw the
      sword at once, in the face of this in-rushing world of Emigration
      and Obscurantism; or wait, and temporise and diplomatise, till,
      if possible, our resources mature themselves a little? And yet
      again are our resources growing towards maturity; or growing the
      _other_ way? Dubious: the ablest Patriots are divided; Brissot
      and his Brissotins, or Girondins, in the Legislative, cry aloud
      for the former defiant plan; Robespierre, in the Jacobins, pleads
      as loud for the latter dilatory one: with responses, even with
      mutual reprimands; distracting the Mother of Patriotism. Consider
      also what agitated Breakfasts there may be at Madame d’Udon’s in
      the Place Vendôme! The alarm of all men is great. Help, ye
      Patriots; and O at least agree; for the hour presses. Frost was
      not yet gone, when in that “tolerably handsome apartment of the
      Castle of Niort,” there arrived a Letter: General Dumouriez must
      to Paris. It is War-minister Narbonne that writes; the General
      shall give counsel about many things.[442] In the month of
      February 1792, Brissotin friends welcome their Dumouriez
      _Polymetis_,—comparable really to an antique Ulysses in modern
      costume; quick, elastic, shifty, insuppressible, a
      “many-counselled man.”

      Let the Reader fancy this fair France with a whole Cimmerian
      Europe girdling her, rolling in on her; black, to burst in red
      thunder of War; fair France herself hand-shackled and
      foot-shackled in the weltering complexities of this Social
      Clothing, or Constitution, which they have made for her; a France
      that, in such Constitution, cannot march! And Hunger too; and
      plotting Aristocrats, and excommunicating Dissident Priests: “The
      man Lebrun by name” urging his black _wiski_, visible to the eye:
      and, still more terrible in his invisibility, Engineer Goguelat,
      with Queen’s cipher, riding and running!

      The excommunicatory Priests give new trouble in the Maine and
      Loire; La Vendée, nor Cathelineau the wool-dealer, has not ceased
      grumbling and rumbling. Nay behold Jalès itself once more: how
      often does that real-imaginary Camp of the Fiend require to be
      extinguished! For near two years now, it has waned faint and
      again waxed bright, in the bewildered soul of Patriotism:
      actually, if Patriotism knew it, one of the most surprising
      products of Nature working with Art. Royalist Seigneurs, under
      this or the other pretext, assemble the simple people of these
      Cevennes Mountains; men not unused to revolt, and with heart for
      fighting, could their poor heads be got persuaded. The Royalist
      Seigneur harangues; harping mainly on the religious string: ‘True
      Priests maltreated, false Priests intruded, Protestants (once
      dragooned) now triumphing, things sacred given to the dogs;’ and
      so produces, from the pious Mountaineer throat, rough growlings.
      ‘Shall we not testify, then, ye brave hearts of the Cevennes;
      march to the rescue? Holy Religion; duty to God and King?’ ‘_Si
      fait, si fait_, Just so, just so,’ answer the brave hearts
      always: ‘_Mais il y a de bien bonnes choses dans la Révolution_,
      But there are many good things in the Revolution too!’—And so the
      matter, cajole as we may, will only turn on its axis, not stir
      from the spot, and remains theatrical merely.[443]

      Nevertheless deepen your cajolery, harp quick and quicker, ye
      Royalist Seigneurs; with a dead-lift effort you may bring it to
      that. In the month of June next, this _Camp of Jalès_ will step
      forth as a theatricality suddenly become real; Two thousand
      strong, and with the boast that it is Seventy thousand: most
      strange to see; with flags flying, bayonets fixed; with
      Proclamation, and d’Artois Commission of civil war! Let some
      Rebecqui, or other the like hot-clear Patriot; let some
      “Lieutenant-Colonel Aubry,” if Rebecqui is busy elsewhere, raise
      instantaneous National Guards, and disperse and dissolve it; and
      blow the Old Castle asunder,[444] that so, if possible, we hear
      of it no more!

      In the Months of February and March, it is recorded, the terror,
      especially of rural France, had risen even to the transcendental
      pitch: not far from madness. In Town and Hamlet is rumour; of
      war, massacre: that Austrians, Aristocrats, above all, that _The
      Brigands_ are close by. Men quit their houses and huts; rush
      fugitive, shrieking, with wife and child, they know not whither.
      Such a terror, the eye-witnesses say, never fell on a Nation; nor
      shall again fall, even in Reigns of Terror expressly so-called.
      The Countries of the Loire, all the Central and South-East
      regions, start up distracted, “simultaneously as by an electric
      shock;”—for indeed grain too gets scarcer and scarcer. “The
      people barricade the entrances of Towns, pile stones in the upper
      stories, the women prepare boiling water; from moment to moment,
      expecting the attack. In the Country, the alarm-bell rings
      incessant: troops of peasants, gathered by it, scour the
      highways, seeking an imaginary enemy. They are armed mostly with
      scythes stuck in wood; and, arriving in wild troops at the
      barricaded Towns, are themselves sometimes taken for
      Brigands.”[445]

      So rushes old France: old France is rushing _down_. What the end
      will be is known to no mortal; that the end is near all mortals
      may know.


      Chapter 2.5.VII.
      Constitution will not march.

      To all which our poor Legislative, tied up by an unmarching
      Constitution, can oppose nothing, by way of remedy, but mere
      bursts of parliamentary eloquence! They go on, debating,
      denouncing, objurgating: loud weltering Chaos, which devours
      _itself._

      But their two thousand and odd Decrees? Reader, these happily
      concern not thee, nor me. Mere Occasional Decrees, foolish and
      not foolish; sufficient for _that_ day was its own evil! Of the
      whole two thousand there are not, now half a score, and these
      mostly blighted in the bud by royal _Veto_, that will profit or
      disprofit us. On the 17th of January, the Legislative, for one
      thing, got its High Court, its _Haute Cour_, set up at Orléans.
      The theory had been given by the Constituent, in May last, but
      this is the reality: a Court for the trial of Political Offences;
      a Court which cannot want work. To this it was decreed that there
      needed no royal Acceptance, therefore that there could be no
      _Veto_. Also Priests can now be married; ever since last October.
      A patriotic adventurous Priest had made bold to marry himself
      then; and not thinking this enough, came to the bar with his new
      spouse; that the whole world might hold honey-moon with him, and
      a Law be obtained.

      Less joyful are the Laws against Refractory Priests; and yet no
      less needful! Decrees on Priests and Decrees on Emigrants: these
      are the two brief Series of Decrees, worked out with endless
      debate, and then cancelled by _Veto_, which mainly concern us
      here. For an august National Assembly must needs conquer these
      Refractories, Clerical or Laic, and thumbscrew them into
      obedience; yet, behold, always as you turn your legislative
      thumbscrew, and will press and even crush till Refractories give
      way,—King’s _Veto_ steps in, with magical paralysis; and your
      thumbscrew, hardly squeezing, much less crushing, does not act!

      Truly a melancholy Set of Decrees, a pair of Sets; paralysed by
      _Veto!_ First, under date the 28th of October 1791, we have
      Legislative Proclamation, issued by herald and bill-sticker;
      inviting Monsieur, the King’s Brother to return within two
      months, under penalties. To which invitation Monsieur replies
      nothing; or indeed replies by Newspaper Parody, inviting the
      august Legislative “to return to common sense within two months,”
      under penalties. Whereupon the Legislative must take stronger
      measures. So, on the 9th of November, we declare all Emigrants to
      be “suspect of conspiracy;” and, in brief, to be “outlawed,” if
      they have not returned at Newyear’s-day:—Will the King say
      _Veto?_ That “triple impost” shall be levied on these men’s
      Properties, or even their Properties be “put in sequestration,”
      one can understand. But further, on Newyear’s-day itself, not an
      individual having “returned,” we declare, and with fresh emphasis
      some fortnight later again declare, That Monsieur is _déchu_,
      forfeited of his eventual Heirship to the Crown; nay more that
      Condé, Calonne, and a considerable List of others are accused of
      high treason; and shall be judged by our High Court of Orléans:
      _Veto!_—Then again as to Nonjurant Priests: it was decreed, in
      November last, that they should forfeit what Pensions they had;
      be “put under inspection, under _surveillance_,” and, if need
      were, be banished: _Veto!_ A still sharper turn is coming; but to
      this also the answer will be, _Veto_.

      _Veto_ after _Veto;_ your thumbscrew paralysed! Gods and men may
      see that the Legislative is in a false position. As, alas, who is
      in a true one? Voices already murmur for a “National
      Convention.”[446] This poor Legislative, spurred and stung into
      action by a whole France and a whole Europe, cannot act; can only
      objurgate and perorate; with stormy “motions,” and motion in
      which is no _way;_ with effervescence, with noise and fuliginous
      fury!

      What scenes in that National Hall! President jingling his
      inaudible bell; or, as utmost signal of distress, clapping on his
      hat; “the tumult subsiding in twenty minutes,” and this or the
      other indiscreet Member sent to the Abbaye Prison for three days!
      Suspected Persons must be summoned and questioned; old M. de
      Sombreuil of the _Invalides_ has to give account of himself, and
      why he leaves his Gates open. Unusual smoke rose from the Sèvres
      Pottery, indicating conspiracy; the Potters explained that it was
      Necklace-Lamotte’s _Mémoires_, bought up by her Majesty, which
      they were endeavouring to suppress by fire,[447]—which
      nevertheless he that runs may still read.

      Again, it would seem, Duke de Brissac and the King’s
      Constitutional-Guard are “making cartridges secretly in the
      cellars;” a set of Royalists, pure and impure; black cut-throats
      many of them, picked out of gaming houses and sinks; in all Six
      thousand instead of Eighteen hundred; who evidently gloom on us
      every time we enter the Château.[448] Wherefore, with infinite
      debate, let Brissac and King’s Guard be _disbanded_. Disbanded
      accordingly they are; after only two months of existence, for
      they did not get on foot till March of this same year. So ends
      briefly the King’s new Constitutional _Maison Militaire;_ he must
      now be guarded by mere Swiss and blue Nationals again. It seems
      the lot of Constitutional things. New Constitutional _Maison
      Civile_ he would never even establish, much as Barnave urged it;
      old resident Duchesses sniffed at it, and held aloof; on the
      whole her Majesty thought it not worth while, the Noblesse would
      so soon be back triumphant.[449]

      Or, looking still into this National Hall and its scenes, behold
      Bishop Torné, a Constitutional Prelate, not of severe morals,
      demanding that “religious costumes and such caricatures” be
      abolished. Bishop Torné warms, catches fire; finishes by untying,
      and indignantly flinging on the table, as if for gage or bet, his
      own pontifical cross. Which cross, at any rate, is instantly
      covered by the cross of _Te-Deum_ Fauchet, then by other crosses,
      and insignia, till all are stripped; this clerical Senator
      clutching off his skull-cap, that other his frill-collar,—lest
      Fanaticism return on us.[450]

      Quick is the movement here! And then so confused, unsubstantial,
      you might call it almost _spectral;_ pallid, dim, inane, like the
      Kingdoms of Dis! Unruly Liguet, shrunk to a kind of spectre for
      us, pleads here, some cause that he has: amid rumour and
      interruption, which excel human patience; he “tears his papers,
      and withdraws,” the irascible adust little man. Nay honourable
      members will tear their papers, being effervescent: Merlin of
      Thionville tears his papers, crying: ‘So, the People cannot be
      saved by _you!_’ Nor are Deputations wanting: Deputations of
      Sections; generally with complaint and denouncement, always with
      Patriot fervour of sentiment: Deputation of Women, pleading that
      they also may be allowed to take Pikes, and exercise in the
      Champ-de-Mars. Why not, ye Amazons, if it be in you? Then
      occasionally, having done our message and got answer, we “defile
      through the Hall, singing _ça-ira;_” or rather roll and whirl
      through it, “dancing our _ronde patriotique_ the while,”—our new
      _Carmagnole_, or Pyrrhic war-dance and liberty-dance. Patriot
      Huguenin, Ex-Advocate, Ex-Carabineer, Ex-Clerk of the Barriers,
      comes deputed, with Saint-Antoine at his heels; denouncing
      Anti-patriotism, Famine, Forstalment and Man-eaters; asks an
      august Legislative: ‘Is there not a _tocsin in your hearts_
      against these _mangeurs d’hommes!_’[451]

      But above all things, for this is a continual business, the
      Legislative has to reprimand the King’s Ministers. Of His
      Majesty’s Ministers we have said hitherto, and say, next to
      nothing. Still more spectral these! Sorrowful; of no permanency
      any of them, none at least since Montmorin vanished: the “eldest
      of the King’s Council” is occasionally not ten days old![452]
      Feuillant-Constitutional, as your respectable Cahier de Gerville,
      as your respectable unfortunate Delessarts; or
      Royalist-Constitutional, as Montmorin last Friend of Necker; or
      Aristocrat as Bertrand-Moleville: they flit there phantom-like,
      in the huge simmering confusion; poor shadows, dashed in the
      racking winds; powerless, without meaning;—whom the human memory
      need not charge itself with.

      But how often, we say, are these poor Majesty’s Ministers
      summoned over; to be questioned, tutored; nay, threatened, almost
      bullied! They answer what, with adroitest simulation and
      casuistry, they can: of which a poor Legislative knows not what
      to make. One thing only is clear, That Cimmerian Europe is
      girdling us in; that France (not actually dead, surely?) cannot
      march. Have a care, ye Ministers! Sharp Guadet transfixes you
      with cross-questions, with sudden Advocate-conclusions; the
      sleeping tempest that is in Vergniaud can be awakened. Restless
      Brissot brings up Reports, Accusations, endless thin Logic; it is
      the man’s highday even now. Condorcet redacts, with his firm pen,
      our “Address of the Legislative Assembly to the French
      Nation.”[453] Fiery Max Isnard, who, for the rest, will ‘carry
      not Fire and Sword’ on those Cimmerian Enemies ‘but Liberty,’—is
      for declaring ‘that we hold Ministers responsible; and that by
      responsibility we mean death, _nous entendons la mort_.’

      For verily it grows serious: the time presses, and traitors there
      are. Bertrand-Moleville has a smooth tongue, the known
      Aristocrat; gall in his heart. How his answers and explanations
      flow ready; jesuitic, plausible to the ear! But perhaps the
      notablest is this, which befell once when Bertrand had done
      answering and was withdrawn. Scarcely had the august Assembly
      begun considering what was to be done with him, when the Hall
      fills with _smoke_. Thick sour smoke: no oratory, only wheezing
      and barking;—irremediable; so that the august Assembly has to
      adjourn![454] A miracle? Typical miracle? One knows not: only
      this one seems to know, that “the Keeper of the Stoves _was
      appointed_ by Bertrand” or by some underling of his!—O fuliginous
      confused Kingdom of Dis, with thy Tantalus-Ixion toils, with thy
      angry Fire-floods, and Streams named of Lamentation, why hast
      thou not thy Lethe too, that so one might _finish?_


      Chapter 2.5.VIII.
      The Jacobins.

      Nevertheless let not Patriotism despair. Have we not, in Paris at
      least, a virtuous Pétion, a wholly Patriotic Municipality?
      Virtuous Pétion, ever since November, is Mayor of Paris: in our
      Municipality, the Public, for the Public is now admitted too, may
      behold an energetic Danton; further, an epigrammatic slow-sure
      Manuel; a resolute unrepentant Billaud-Varennes, of Jesuit
      breeding; Tallien able-editor; and nothing but Patriots, better
      or worse. So ran the November Elections: to the joy of most
      citizens; nay the very Court supported Pétion rather than
      Lafayette. And so Bailly and his Feuillants, long waning like the
      Moon, had to withdraw then, making some sorrowful obeisance, into
      extinction;—or indeed into worse, into lurid half-light, grimmed
      by the shadow of that Red Flag of theirs, and bitter memory of
      the Champ-de-Mars. How swift is the progress of things and men!
      Not now does Lafayette, as on that Federation-day, when _his_
      noon was, “press his sword firmly on the Fatherland’s Altar,” and
      swear in sight of France: ah no; he, waning and setting ever
      since that hour, hangs now, disastrous, on the edge of the
      horizon; commanding one of those Three moulting Crane-flights of
      Armies, in a most suspected, unfruitful, uncomfortable manner!

      But, at most, cannot Patriotism, so many thousands strong in this
      Metropolis of the Universe, help itself? Has it not right-hands,
      pikes? Hammering of pikes, which was not to be prohibited by
      Mayor Bailly, has been sanctioned by Mayor Pétion; sanctioned by
      Legislative Assembly. How not, when the King’s so-called
      Constitutional Guard “was making cartridges in secret?” Changes
      are necessary for the National Guard itself; this whole
      Feuillant-Aristocrat Staff of the Guard must be disbanded.
      Likewise, citizens without uniform may surely rank in the Guard,
      the pike beside the musket, in such a time: the “active” citizen
      and the passive who can fight for us, are they not both
      welcome?—O my Patriot friends, indubitably Yes! Nay the truth is,
      Patriotism throughout, were it never so white-frilled, logical,
      respectable, must either lean itself heartily on Sansculottism,
      the black, bottomless; or else vanish, in the frightfullest way,
      to Limbo! Thus some, with upturned nose, will altogether sniff
      and disdain Sansculottism; others will lean heartily on it; nay
      others again will lean what we call _heartlessly_ on it: three
      sorts; each sort with a destiny corresponding.[455]

      In such point of view, however, have we not for the present a
      Volunteer Ally, stronger than all the rest: namely, Hunger?
      Hunger; and what rushing of Panic Terror this and the sum-total
      of our other miseries may bring! For Sansculottism grows by what
      all other things die of. Stupid Peter Baille almost made an
      epigram, though unconsciously, and with the Patriot world
      laughing not at it but at him, when he wrote “_Tout va bien ici,
      le pain manque_, All goes well here, victuals not to be
      had.”[456]

      Neither, if you knew it, is Patriotism without her Constitution
      that _can_ march; her _not_ impotent Parliament; or call it,
      Ecumenic Council, and General-Assembly of the Jean-Jacques
      Churches: the MOTHER-SOCIETY, namely! Mother-Society with her
      three hundred full-grown Daughters; with what we can call little
      Granddaughters trying to walk, in every village of France,
      numerable, as Burke thinks, by the hundred thousand. This is the
      true Constitution; made not by Twelve-Hundred august Senators,
      but by Nature herself; and has grown, unconsciously, out of the
      wants and the efforts of these Twenty-five Millions of men. They
      are “Lords of the Articles,” our Jacobins; they originate debates
      for the Legislative; discuss Peace and War; settle beforehand
      what the Legislative is to do. Greatly to the scandal of
      philosophical men, and of most Historians;—who do in that judge
      naturally, and yet not wisely. A Governing power must exist: your
      other powers here are simulacra; this power is _it._

      Great is the Mother Society: She has had the honour to be
      denounced by Austrian Kaunitz;[457] and is all the dearer to
      Patriotism. By fortune and valour, she has extinguished
      Feuillantism itself, at least the Feuillant Club. This latter,
      high as it once carried its head, she, on the 18th of February,
      has the satisfaction to see shut, extinct; Patriots having gone
      thither, with tumult, to hiss it out of pain. The Mother Society
      has enlarged her locality, stretches now over the whole nave of
      the Church. Let us glance in, with the worthy Toulongeon, our old
      Ex-Constituent Friend, who happily has eyes to see: “The nave of
      the Jacobins Church,” says he, “is changed into a vast Circus,
      the seats of which mount up circularly like an amphitheatre to
      the very groin of the domed roof. A high Pyramid of black marble,
      built against one of the walls, which was formerly a funeral
      monument, has alone been left standing: it serves now as back to
      the Office-bearers’ Bureau. Here on an elevated Platform sit
      President and Secretaries, behind and above them the white Busts
      of Mirabeau, of Franklin, and various others, nay finally of
      Marat. Facing this is the Tribune, raised till it is midway
      between floor and groin of the dome, so that the speaker’s voice
      may be in the centre. From that point, thunder the voices which
      shake all Europe: down below, in silence, are forging the
      thunderbolts and the firebrands. Penetrating into this huge
      circuit, where all is out of measure, gigantic, the mind cannot
      repress some movement of terror and wonder; the imagination
      recalls those dread temples which Poetry, of old, had consecrated
      to the Avenging Deities.”[458]

      Scenes too are in this Jacobin Amphitheatre,—had History time for
      them. Flags of the “Three free Peoples of the Universe,” trinal
      brotherly flags of England, America, France, have been waved here
      in concert; by London Deputation, of Whigs or _Wighs_ and their
      Club, on this hand, and by young French Citizenesses on that;
      beautiful sweet-tongued Female Citizens, who solemnly send over
      salutation and brotherhood, also Tricolor stitched by their own
      needle, and finally Ears of Wheat; while the dome rebellows with
      _Vivent les trois peuples libres!_ from all throats:—a most
      dramatic scene. Demoiselle Théroigne recites, from that Tribune
      in mid air, her persecutions in Austria; comes leaning on the arm
      of Joseph Chénier, Poet Chénier, to demand Liberty for the
      hapless Swiss of Château-Vieux.[459] Be of hope, ye Forty Swiss;
      tugging there, in the Brest waters; _not_ forgotten!

      Deputy Brissot perorates from that Tribune; Desmoulins, our
      wicked Camille, interjecting audibly from below, ‘_Coquin!_’
      Here, though oftener in the Cordeliers, reverberates the
      lion-voice of Danton; grim Billaud-Varennes is here; Collot
      d’Herbois, pleading for the Forty Swiss; tearing a passion to
      rags. Apophthegmatic Manuel winds up in this pithy way: ‘A
      Minister must perish!’—to which the Amphitheatre responds:
      ‘_Tous, Tous_, All, All!’ But the Chief Priest and Speaker of
      this place, as we said, is Robespierre, the long-winded
      incorruptible man. What spirit of Patriotism dwelt in men in
      those times, this one fact, it seems to us, will evince: that
      fifteen hundred human creatures, not bound to it, sat quiet under
      the oratory of Robespierre; nay, listened nightly, hour after
      hour, applausive; and gaped as for the word of life. More
      insupportable individual, one would say, seldom opened his mouth
      in any Tribune. Acrid, implacable-impotent; dull-drawling, barren
      as the Harmattan-wind! He pleads, in endless earnest-shallow
      speech, against immediate War, against Woollen Caps or _Bonnets
      Rouges_, against many things; and is the Trismegistus and
      Dalai-Lama of Patriot men. Whom nevertheless a shrill-voiced
      little man, yet with fine eyes, and a broad beautifully sloping
      brow, rises respectfully to controvert: he is, say the Newspaper
      Reporters, “M. Louvet, Author of the charming Romance of
      _Faublas_.” Steady, ye Patriots! Pull not _yet_ two ways; with a
      France rushing panic-stricken in the rural districts, and a
      Cimmerian Europe storming in on you!


      Chapter 2.5.IX.
      Minister Roland.

      About the vernal equinox, however, one unexpected gleam of hope
      does burst forth on Patriotism: the appointment of a thoroughly
      Patriot Ministry. This also his Majesty, among his innumerable
      experiments of wedding fire to water, will try. _Quod bonum sit_.
      Madame d’Udon’s Breakfasts have jingled with a new significance;
      not even Genevese Dumont but had a word in it. Finally, on the
      15th and onwards to the 23d day of March, 1792, when all is
      negociated,—this is the blessed issue; this Patriot Ministry that
      we see.

      General Dumouriez, with the Foreign Portfolio shall ply Kaunitz
      and the Kaiser, in another style than did poor Delessarts; whom
      indeed we have sent to our High Court of Orléans for his
      sluggishness. War-minister Narbonne is washed away by the
      Time-flood; poor Chevalier de Grave, chosen by the Court, is fast
      washing away: then shall austere Servan, able Engineer-Officer,
      mount suddenly to the War Department. Genevese Clavière sees an
      old omen realized: passing the Finance Hotel, long years ago, as
      a poor Genevese Exile, it was borne wondrously on his mind that
      _he_ was to be Finance Minister; and now he is it;—and his poor
      Wife, given up by the Doctors, rises and walks, not the victim of
      nerves but their vanquisher.[460] And above all, our Minister of
      the Interior? Roland de la Platrière, he of Lyons! So have the
      Brissotins, public or private Opinion, and Breakfasts in the
      Place Vendôme decided it. Strict Roland, compared to a _Quaker
      endimanché_, or Sunday Quaker, goes to kiss hands at the
      Tuileries, in round hat and sleek hair, his shoes tied with mere
      riband or ferrat! The Supreme Usher twitches Dumouriez aside:
      ‘_Quoi, Monsieur!_ No buckles to his shoes?’—‘Ah, Monsieur,’
      answers Dumouriez, glancing towards the ferrat: ‘All is lost,
      _Tout est perdu_.’[461]

      And so our fair Roland removes from her upper floor in the Rue
      Saint-Jacques, to the sumptuous saloons once occupied by Madame
      Necker. Nay still earlier, it was Calonne that did all this
      gilding; it was he who ground these lustres, Venetian mirrors;
      who polished this inlaying, this veneering and or-moulu; and made
      it, by rubbing of the proper _lamp_, an Aladdin’s Palace:—and now
      behold, he wanders dim-flitting over Europe, half-drowned in the
      Rhine-stream, scarcely saving his Papers! _Vos non vobis_.—The
      fair Roland, equal to either fortune, has her public Dinner on
      Fridays, the Ministers all there in a body: she withdraws to her
      desk (the cloth once removed), and seems busy writing;
      nevertheless loses no word: if for example Deputy Brissot and
      Minister Clavière get too hot in argument, she, not without
      timidity, yet with a cunning gracefulness, will interpose. Deputy
      Brissot’s head, they say, is getting giddy, in this sudden
      height: as feeble heads do.

      Envious men insinuate that the Wife Roland is Minister, and not
      the Husband: it is happily the worst they have to charge her
      with. For the rest, let whose head soever be getting giddy, it is
      not this brave woman’s. Serene and queenly here, as she was of
      old in her own hired garret of the Ursulines Convent! She who has
      quietly shelled French-beans for her dinner; being led to that,
      as a young maiden, by quiet insight and computation; and knowing
      what that was, and what she was: such a one will also look
      quietly on or-moulu and veneering, not ignorant of these either.
      Calonne did the veneering: he gave dinners here, old Besenval
      diplomatically whispering to him; and was great: yet Calonne we
      saw at last “walk with long strides.” Necker next: and where now
      is Necker? Us also a swift change has brought hither; a swift
      change will send us hence. Not a Palace but a Caravansera!

      So wags and wavers this unrestful World, day after day, month
      after month. The Streets of Paris, and all Cities, roll daily
      their oscillatory flood of men; which flood does, nightly,
      disappear, and lie hidden horizontal in beds and trucklebeds; and
      awakes on the morrow to new perpendicularity and movement. Men go
      their roads, foolish or wise;—Engineer Goguelat to and fro,
      bearing Queen’s cipher. A Madame de Staël is busy; cannot clutch
      her Narbonne from the Time-flood: a Princess de Lamballe is busy;
      cannot help her Queen. Barnave, seeing the Feuillants dispersed,
      and Coblentz so brisk, begs by way of final recompence to kiss
      her Majesty’s hand; augurs not well of her new course; and
      retires home to Grenoble, to wed an heiress there. The Café
      Valois and Méot the Restaurateur’s hear daily gasconade; loud
      babble of Half-pay Royalists, with or without Poniards; remnants
      of Aristocrat saloons call the new Ministry
      _Ministère-Sansculotte_. A Louvet, of the Romance _Faublas_, is
      busy in the Jacobins. A Cazotte, of the Romance _Diable
      Amoureux_, is busy elsewhere: better wert thou quiet, old
      Cazotte; it is a world, this, of magic become _real!_ All men are
      busy; doing they only half guess what:—flinging seeds, of tares
      mostly, into the ‘Seed-field of TIME’ this, by and by, will
      declare wholly what.

      But Social Explosions have in them something dread, and as it
      were mad and magical: which indeed Life always secretly has; thus
      the dumb Earth (says Fable), if you pull her mandrake-roots, will
      give a dæmonic mad-making _moan_. These Explosions and Revolts
      ripen, break forth like dumb dread Forces of Nature; and yet they
      are Men’s forces; and yet _we_ are part of them: the Dæmonic that
      is in man’s life has burst out on us, will sweep us too away!—One
      day here is like another, and yet it is not like but different.
      How much is growing, silently resistless, at all moments!
      Thoughts are growing; forms of Speech are growing, and Customs
      and even Costumes; still more visibly are actions and
      transactions growing, and that doomed Strife, of France with
      herself and with the whole world.

      The word _Liberty_ is never named now except in conjunction with
      another; _Liberty_ and _Equality_. In like manner, what, in a
      reign of Liberty and Equality, can these words, “Sir,” “obedient
      Servant,” “Honour to be,” and such like, signify? Tatters and
      fibres of old Feudality; which, were it only in the Grammatical
      province, ought to be rooted out! The Mother Society has long
      since had proposals to that effect: these she could not
      entertain, not at the moment. Note too how the Jacobin Brethren
      are mounting new symbolical headgear: the Woollen Cap or
      Nightcap, _bonnet de laine_, better known as _bonnet rouge_, the
      colour being _red_. A thing one wears not only by way of Phrygian
      Cap-of-Liberty, but also for convenience” sake, and then also in
      compliment to the Lower-class Patriots and Bastille-Heroes; for
      the Red Nightcap combines all the three properties. Nay cockades
      themselves begin to be made of wool, of tricolor yarn: the
      riband-cockade, as a symptom of Feuillant Upper-class temper, is
      becoming suspicious. Signs of the times.

      Still more, note the travail-throes of Europe: or, rather, note
      the birth she brings; for the successive throes and shrieks, of
      Austrian and Prussian Alliance, of Kaunitz Anti-jacobin Despatch,
      of French Ambassadors cast out, and so forth, were long to note.
      Dumouriez corresponds with Kaunitz, Metternich, or Cobentzel, in
      another style that Delessarts did. Strict becomes stricter;
      categorical answer, as to this Coblentz work and much else, shall
      be given. Failing which? Failing which, on the 20th day of April
      1792, King and Ministers step over to the Salle de Manége;
      promulgate how the matter stands; and poor Louis, “with tears in
      his eyes,” proposes that the Assembly do now decree War. After
      due eloquence, War is decreed that night.

      War, indeed! Paris came all crowding, full of expectancy, to the
      morning, and still more to the evening session. D’Orléans with
      his two sons, is there; looks on, wide-eyed, from the opposite
      Gallery.[462] Thou canst look, O Philippe: it is a War big with
      issues, for thee and for all men. Cimmerian Obscurantism and this
      thrice glorious Revolution shall wrestle for it, then: some
      Four-and-twenty years; in immeasurable Briareus’ wrestle;
      trampling and tearing; before they can come to any, not
      agreement, but compromise, and approximate ascertainment each of
      what is in the other.

      Let our Three Generals on the Frontiers look to it, therefore;
      and poor Chevalier de Grave, the Warminister, consider what he
      will do. What is in the three Generals and Armies we may guess.
      As for poor Chevalier de Grave, he, in this whirl of things all
      coming to a press and pinch upon him, loses head, and merely
      whirls with them, in a totally distracted manner; signing himself
      at last, “De Grave, _Mayor of Paris;_” whereupon he demits,
      returns over the Channel, to walk in Kensington Gardens;[463] and
      austere Servan, the able Engineer-Officer, is elevated in his
      stead. To the post of Honour? To that of Difficulty, at least.


      Chapter 2.5.X.
      Pétion-National-Pique.

      And yet, how, on dark bottomless Cataracts there plays the
      foolishest fantastic-coloured spray and shadow; hiding the Abyss
      under vapoury rainbows! Alongside of this discussion as to
      Austrian-Prussian War, there goes on no less but more vehemently
      a discussion, Whether the Forty or Two-and-forty Swiss of
      Château-Vieux shall be liberated from the Brest Gallies? And
      then, Whether, being liberated, they shall have a public
      Festival, or only private ones?

      Théroigne, as we saw, spoke; and Collot took up the tale. Has not
      Bouillé’s final display of himself, in that final Night of Spurs,
      stamped your so-called “Revolt of Nanci” into a “Massacre of
      Nanci,” for all Patriot judgments? Hateful is that massacre;
      hateful the Lafayette-Feuillant “public thanks” given for it! For
      indeed, Jacobin Patriotism and dispersed Feuillantism are now at
      death-grips; and do fight with all weapons, even with scenic
      shows. The walls of Paris, accordingly, are covered with Placard
      and Counter-Placard, on the subject of Forty Swiss blockheads.
      Journal responds to Journal; Player Collot to Poetaster Roucher;
      Joseph Chénier the Jacobin, squire of Théroigne, to his Brother
      Andre the Feuillant; Mayor Pétion to Dupont de Nemours: and for
      the space of two months, there is nowhere peace for the thought
      of man,—till this thing be settled.

      _Gloria in excelsis!_ The Forty Swiss are at last got
      “amnestied.” Rejoice ye Forty: doff your greasy wool Bonnets,
      which shall become Caps of Liberty. The Brest Daughter-Society
      welcomes you from on board, with kisses on each cheek: your iron
      Handcuffs are disputed as Relics of Saints; the Brest Society
      indeed can have one portion, which it will beat into Pikes, a
      sort of Sacred Pikes; but the other portion must belong to Paris,
      and be suspended from the dome there, along with the Flags of the
      Three Free Peoples! Such a goose is man; and cackles over
      plush-velvet Grand Monarques and woollen Galley-slaves; over
      everything and over nothing,—and will cackle with his whole soul
      merely if others cackle!

      On the ninth morning of April, these Forty Swiss blockheads
      arrive. From Versailles; with _vivats_ heaven-high; with the
      affluence of men and women. To the Townhall we conduct them; nay
      to the Legislative itself, though not without difficulty. They
      are harangued, bedinnered, begifted,—the very Court, _not_ for
      conscience” sake, contributing something; and their Public
      Festival shall be next Sunday. Next Sunday accordingly it
      is.[464] They are mounted into a “triumphal Car resembling a
      ship;” are carted over Paris, with the clang of cymbals and
      drums, all mortals assisting applausive; carted to the
      Champ-de-Mars and Fatherland’s Altar; and finally carted, for
      Time always brings deliverance,—into invisibility for evermore.

      Whereupon dispersed Feuillantism, or that Party which loves
      Liberty yet not more than Monarchy, will likewise have its
      Festival: Festival of Simonneau, unfortunate Mayor of Etampes,
      who died for the Law; most surely for the Law, though Jacobinism
      disputes; being trampled down with his Red Flag in the riot about
      grains. At which Festival the Public again assists,
      _un_applausive: not we.

      On the whole, Festivals are not wanting; beautiful rainbow-spray
      when all is now rushing treble-quick towards its Niagara Fall.
      National repasts there are; countenanced by Mayor Pétion;
      Saint-Antoine, and the Strong Ones of the Halles defiling through
      Jacobin Club, ‘their felicity,’ according to Santerre, ‘not
      perfect otherwise;’ singing many-voiced their _ça-ira_, dancing
      their _ronde patriotique_. Among whom one is glad to discern
      Saint-Huruge, expressly “in white hat,” the Saint-Christopher of
      the Carmagnole. Nay a certain _Tambour_ or National Drummer,
      having just been presented with a little daughter, determines to
      have the new Frenchwoman christened on Fatherland’s Altar then
      and there. Repast once over, he accordingly has her christened;
      Fauchet the Te-Deum Bishop acting in chief, Thuriot and
      honourable persons standing gossips: by the name,
      Pétion-National-Pique![465] Does this remarkable Citizeness, now
      past the meridian of life, still walk the Earth? Or did she die
      perhaps of teething? Universal History is not indifferent.


      Chapter 2.5.XI.
      The Hereditary Representative.

      And yet it is not by carmagnole-dances and singing of _ça-ira_,
      that the work can be done. Duke Brunswick is not dancing
      carmagnoles, but has his drill serjeants busy.

      On the Frontiers, our Armies, be it treason or not, behave in the
      worst way. Troops badly commanded, shall we say? Or troops
      intrinsically bad? Unappointed, undisciplined, mutinous; that, in
      a thirty-years peace, have never seen fire? In any case,
      Lafayette’s and Rochambeau’s little clutch, which they made at
      Austrian Flanders, has prospered as badly as clutch need do:
      soldiers starting at their own shadow; suddenly shrieking, ‘_On
      nous trahit_,’ and flying off in wild panic, at or before the
      first shot;—managing only to hang some two or three Prisoners
      they had picked up, and massacre their own Commander, poor
      Theobald Dillon, driven into a granary by them in the Town of
      Lille.

      And poor Gouvion: he who sat shiftless in that Insurrection of
      Women! Gouvion quitted the Legislative Hall and Parliamentary
      duties, in disgust and despair, when those Galley-slaves of
      Château-Vieux were admitted there. He said, ‘Between the
      Austrians and the Jacobins there is nothing but a soldier’s death
      for it;’[466] and so, “in the dark stormy night,” he has flung
      himself into the throat of the Austrian cannon, and perished in
      the skirmish at Maubeuge on the ninth of June. Whom Legislative
      Patriotism shall mourn, with black mortcloths and melody in the
      Champ-de-Mars: many a Patriot shiftier, truer none. Lafayette
      himself is looking altogether dubious; in place of beating the
      Austrians, is about writing to denounce the Jacobins. Rochambeau,
      all disconsolate, quits the service: there remains only Lückner,
      the babbling old Prussian Grenadier.

      Without Armies, without Generals! And the Cimmerian Night, _has_
      gathered itself; Brunswick preparing his Proclamation; just about
      to march! Let a Patriot Ministry and Legislative say, what in
      these circumstances it will do? Suppress Internal Enemies, for
      one thing, answers the Patriot Legislative; and proposes, on the
      24th of May, its Decree for the Banishment of Priests. Collect
      also some nucleus of determined internal friends, adds
      War-minister Servan; and proposes, on the 7th of June, his Camp
      of Twenty-thousand. Twenty-thousand National Volunteers; Five out
      of each Canton; picked Patriots, for Roland has charge of the
      Interior: they shall assemble here in Paris; and be for a
      defence, cunningly devised, against foreign Austrians and
      domestic _Austrian Committee_ alike. So much can a Patriot
      Ministry and Legislative do.

      Reasonable and cunningly devised as such Camp may, to Servan and
      Patriotism, appear, it appears not so to Feuillantism; to that
      Feuillant-Aristocrat Staff of the Paris Guard; a Staff, one would
      say again, which will need to be _dissolved_. These men see, in
      this proposed Camp of Servan’s, an offence; and even, as they
      pretend to say, an insult. Petitions there come, in consequence,
      from blue Feuillants in epaulettes; ill received. Nay, in the
      end, there comes one Petition, called “of the Eight Thousand
      National Guards:” so many names are on it; including women and
      children. Which famed Petition of the Eight Thousand is indeed
      received: and the Petitioners, all under arms, are admitted to
      the honours of the sitting,—if honours or even if sitting there
      be; for the instant their bayonets appear at the one door, the
      Assembly “adjourns,” and begins to flow out at the other.[467]

      Also, in these same days, it is lamentable to see how National
      Guards, escorting _Fête Dieu_ or _Corpus-Christi_ ceremonial, do
      collar and smite down any Patriot that does not uncover as the
      Hostie passes. They clap their bayonets to the breast of
      Cattle-butcher Legendre, a known Patriot ever since the Bastille
      days; and threaten to butcher him; though he sat quite
      respectfully, he says, in his Gig, at a distance of fifty paces,
      waiting till the thing were by. Nay, orthodox females were
      shrieking to have down the _Lanterne_ on him.[468]

      To such height has Feuillantism gone in this Corps. For indeed,
      are not their Officers creatures of the chief Feuillant,
      Lafayette? The Court too has, very naturally, been tampering with
      them; caressing them, ever since that dissolution of the
      so-called Constitutional Guard. Some Battalions are altogether
      “_pétris_, kneaded full” of Feuillantism, mere Aristocrats at
      bottom: for instance, the Battalion of the _Filles-Saint-Thomas_,
      made up of your Bankers, Stockbrokers, and other Full-purses of
      the Rue Vivienne. Our worthy old Friend Weber, Queen’s
      Foster-brother Weber, carries a musket in that Battalion,—one may
      judge with what degree of Patriotic intention.

      Heedless of all which, or rather heedful of all which, the
      Legislative, backed by Patriot France and the feeling of
      Necessity, decrees this Camp of Twenty thousand. Decisive though
      conditional Banishment of malign Priests, it has already decreed.

      It will now be seen, therefore, Whether the Hereditary
      Representative is for us or against us? Whether or not, to all
      our other woes, this intolerablest one is to be added; which
      renders us not a menaced Nation in extreme jeopardy and need, but
      a paralytic Solecism of a Nation; sitting wrapped as in dead
      cerements, of a Constitutional-Vesture that were no other than a
      winding-sheet; our right hand glued to our left: to wait there,
      writhing and wriggling, unable to stir from the spot, till in
      Prussian rope we mount to the gallows? Let the Hereditary
      Representative consider it well: The Decree of Priests? The Camp
      of Twenty Thousand?—By Heaven, he answers, _Veto! Veto!_—Strict
      Roland hands in his _Letter to the King;_ or rather it was
      Madame’s Letter, who wrote it all at a sitting; one of the
      plainest-spoken Letters ever handed in to any King. This
      plain-spoken Letter King Louis has the benefit of reading
      overnight. He reads, inwardly digests; and next morning, the
      whole Patriot Ministry finds itself turned out. It is the 13th of
      June 1792.[469]

      Dumouriez the many-counselled, he, with one Duranthon, called
      Minister of Justice, does indeed linger for a day or two; in
      rather suspicious circumstances; speaks with the Queen, almost
      weeps with her: but in the end, he too sets off for the Army;
      leaving what Un-Patriot or Semi-Patriot Ministry and Ministries
      can now accept the helm, to accept it. Name them not: new
      quick-changing Phantasms, which shift like magic-lantern figures;
      more spectral than ever!

      Unhappy Queen, unhappy Louis! The two _Vetos_ were so natural:
      are not the Priests martyrs; also friends? This Camp of Twenty
      Thousand, could it be other than of stormfullest Sansculottes?
      Natural; and yet, to France, unendurable. Priests that co-operate
      with Coblentz must go elsewhither with their martyrdom: stormful
      Sansculottes, these and no other kind of creatures, will drive
      back the Austrians. If thou prefer the Austrians, then for the
      love of Heaven go join them. If not, join frankly with what will
      oppose them to the death. Middle course is none.

      Or alas, what extreme course was there left now, for a man like
      Louis? Underhand Royalists, Ex-Minister Bertrand-Moleville,
      Ex-Constituent Malouet, and all manner of unhelpful individuals,
      advise and advise. With face of hope turned now on the
      Legislative Assembly, and now on Austria and Coblentz, and round
      generally on the Chapter of Chances, an ancient Kingship is
      reeling and spinning, one knows not whitherward, on the flood of
      things.


      Chapter 2.5.XII.
      Procession of the Black Breeches.

      But is there a thinking man in France who, in these
      circumstances, can persuade himself that the Constitution will
      march? Brunswick is stirring; _he_, in few days now, will march.
      Shall France sit still, wrapped in dead cerements and
      grave-clothes, its right hand glued to its left, till the
      Brunswick Saint-Bartholomew arrive; till France be as Poland, and
      its Rights of Man become a Prussian Gibbet?

      Verily, it is a moment frightful for all men. National Death; or
      else some preternatural convulsive outburst of National
      Life;—that same, _dæmonic_ outburst! Patriots whose audacity has
      limits had, in truth, better retire like Barnave; court private
      felicity at Grenoble. Patriots, whose audacity has no limits must
      sink down into the obscure; and, daring and defying all things,
      seek salvation in stratagem, in Plot of Insurrection. Roland and
      young Barbaroux have spread out the Map of France before them,
      Barbaroux says “with tears:” they consider what Rivers, what
      Mountain ranges are in it: they will retire behind this
      Loire-stream, defend these Auvergne stone-labyrinths; save some
      little sacred Territory of the Free; die at least in their last
      ditch. Lafayette indites his emphatic Letter to the Legislative
      against Jacobinism;[470] which emphatic Letter will not heal the
      unhealable.

      Forward, ye Patriots whose audacity has no limits; it is you now
      that must either do or die! The sections of Paris sit in deep
      counsel; send out Deputation after Deputation to the Salle de
      Manége, to petition and denounce. Great is their ire against
      tyrannous _Veto, Austrian Committee_, and the combined Cimmerian
      Kings. What boots it? Legislative listens to the “tocsin in our
      hearts;” grants us honours of the sitting, sees us defile with
      jingle and fanfaronade; but the Camp of Twenty Thousand, the
      Priest-Decree, be-vetoed by Majesty, are become impossible for
      Legislative. Fiery Isnard says, ‘We will have Equality, should we
      descend for it to the tomb.’ Vergniaud utters, hypothetically,
      his stern Ezekiel-visions of the fate of Anti-national Kings. But
      the question is: Will hypothetic prophecies, will jingle and
      fanfaronade demolish the _Veto;_ or will the Veto, secure in its
      Tuileries Château, remain undemolishable by these? Barbaroux,
      dashing away his tears, writes to the Marseilles Municipality,
      that they must send him “Six hundred men who know how to die,
      _qui savent mourir_.”[471] No wet-eyed message this, but a
      fire-eyed one;—which will be obeyed!

      Meanwhile the Twentieth of June is nigh, anniversary of that
      world-famous Oath of the Tennis-Court: on which day, it is said,
      certain citizens have in view to plant a _Mai_ or Tree of
      Liberty, in the Tuileries Terrace of the Feuillants; perhaps also
      to petition the Legislative and Hereditary Representative about
      these Vetos;—with such demonstration, jingle and evolution, as
      may seem profitable and practicable. Sections have gone singly,
      and jingled and evolved: but if they all went, or great part of
      them, and there, planting their _Mai_ in these alarming
      circumstances, sounded the tocsin in their hearts?

      Among King’s Friends there can be but one opinion as to such a
      step: among Nation’s Friends there may be two. On the one hand,
      might it not by possibility scare away these unblessed Vetos?
      Private Patriots and even Legislative Deputies may have each his
      own opinion, or own no-opinion: but the hardest task falls
      evidently on Mayor Pétion and the Municipals, at once Patriots
      and Guardians of the public Tranquillity. Hushing the matter down
      with the one hand; tickling it up with the other! Mayor Pétion
      and Municipality may lean this way; Department-Directory with
      Procureur-Syndic Rœderer having a Feuillant tendency, may lean
      that. On the whole, each man must act according to his one
      opinion or to his two opinions; and all manner of influences,
      official representations cross one another in the foolishest way.
      Perhaps after all, the Project, desirable and yet not desirable,
      will dissipate itself, being run athwart by so many complexities;
      and coming to nothing?

      Not so: on the Twentieth morning of June, a large Tree of
      Liberty, Lombardy Poplar by kind, lies visibly tied on its car,
      in the Suburb-Antoine. Suburb Saint-Marceau too, in the uttermost
      South-East, and all that remote Oriental region, Pikemen and
      Pikewomen, National Guards, and the unarmed curious are
      gathering,—with the peaceablest intentions in the world. A
      tricolor Municipal arrives; speaks. Tush, it is all peaceable, we
      tell thee, in the way of Law: are not Petitions allowable, and
      the Patriotism of _Mais?_ The tricolor Municipal returns without
      effect: your Sansculottic rills continue flowing, combining into
      brooks: towards noontide, led by tall Santerre in blue uniform,
      by tall Saint-Huruge in white hat, it moves Westward, a
      respectable river, or complication of still-swelling rivers.

      What Processions have we not seen: _Corpus-Christi_ and Legendre
      waiting in Gig; Bones of Voltaire with bullock-chariots, and
      goadsmen in Roman Costume; Feasts of Château-Vieux and Simonneau;
      Gouvion Funerals, Rousseau Sham-Funerals, and the Baptism of
      Pétion-National-Pike! Nevertheless this Procession has a
      character of its own. Tricolor ribands streaming aloft from
      pike-heads; ironshod batons; and emblems not a few; among which,
      see specially these two, of the tragic and the untragic sort: a
      Bull’s Heart transfixed with iron, bearing this epigraph, “_Cœur
      d’Aristocrate_, Aristocrat’s Heart;” and, more striking still,
      properly the standard of the host, a pair of old Black Breeches
      (silk, they say), extended on cross-staff high overhead, with
      these memorable words: “_Tremblez tyrans, voilà les
      Sansculottes_, Tremble tyrants, here are the
      Sans-indispensables!” Also, the Procession trails two cannons.

      Scarfed tricolor Municipals do now again meet it, in the Quai
      Saint-Bernard; and plead earnestly, having called halt.
      Peaceable, ye virtuous tricolor Municipals, peaceable are we as
      the sucking dove. Behold our Tennis-Court _Mai_. Petition is
      legal; and as for arms, did not an august Legislative receive the
      so-called Eight Thousand in arms, Feuillants though they were?
      Our Pikes, are they not of National iron? Law is our father and
      mother, whom we will not dishonour; but Patriotism is our own
      soul. Peaceable, ye virtuous Municipals;—and on the whole,
      limited as to time! Stop we cannot; march ye with us.—The Black
      Breeches agitate themselves, impatient; the cannon-wheels
      grumble: the many-footed Host tramps on.

      How it reached the Salle de Manége, like an ever-waxing river;
      got admittance, after debate; read its Address; and defiled,
      dancing and _ça-ira_-ing, led by tall sonorous Santerre and tall
      sonorous Saint-Huruge: how it flowed, not now a waxing river but
      a shut Caspian lake, round all Precincts of the Tuileries; the
      front Patriot squeezed by the rearward, against barred iron
      Grates, like to have the life squeezed out of him, and looking
      too into the dread throat of cannon, for National Battalions
      stand ranked within: how tricolor Municipals ran assiduous, and
      Royalists with Tickets of Entry; and both Majesties sat in the
      interior surrounded by men in black: all this the human mind
      shall fancy for itself, or read in old Newspapers, and Syndic
      Rœderer’s _Chronicle of Fifty Days_.[472]

      Our _Mai_ is planted; if not in the Feuillants Terrace, whither
      is no ingate, then in the Garden of the Capuchins, as near as we
      could get. National Assembly has adjourned till the Evening
      Session: perhaps this shut lake, finding no ingate, will retire
      to its sources again; and disappear in peace? Alas, not yet:
      rearward still presses on; rearward knows little what pressure is
      in the front. One would wish at all events, were it possible, to
      have a word with his Majesty first!

      The shadows fall longer, eastward; it is four o’clock: will his
      Majesty not come out? Hardly he! In that case, Commandant
      Santerre, Cattle-butcher Legendre, Patriot Huguenin with the
      tocsin in his heart; they, and others of authority, will enter
      _in_. Petition and request to wearied uncertain National Guard;
      louder and louder petition; backed by the rattle of our two
      cannons! The reluctant Grate opens: endless Sansculottic
      multitudes flood the stairs; knock at the wooden guardian of your
      privacy. Knocks, in such case, grow strokes, grow smashings: the
      wooden guardian flies in shivers. And now ensues a Scene over
      which the world has long wailed; and not unjustly; for a sorrier
      spectacle, of Incongruity fronting Incongruity, and as it were
      recognising themselves incongruous, and staring stupidly in each
      other’s face, the world seldom saw.

      King Louis, his door being beaten on, opens it; stands with free
      bosom; asking, ‘What do you want?’ The Sansculottic flood recoils
      awestruck; returns however, the rear pressing on the front, with
      cries of ‘Veto! Patriot Ministers! Remove Veto!’—which things,
      Louis valiantly answers, this is not the time to do, nor this the
      way to ask him to do. Honour what virtue is in a man. Louis does
      not want courage; he has even the higher kind called
      moral-courage, though only the passive half of that. His few
      National Grenadiers shuffle back with him, into the embrasure of
      a window: there he stands, with unimpeachable passivity, amid the
      shouldering and the braying; a spectacle to men. They hand him a
      Red Cap of Liberty; he sets it quietly on his head, forgets it
      there. He complains of thirst; half-drunk Rascality offers him a
      bottle, he drinks of it. ‘Sire, do not fear,’ says one of his
      Grenadiers. ‘Fear?’ answers Louis: ‘feel then,’ putting the man’s
      hand on his heart. So stands Majesty in Red woollen Cap; black
      Sansculottism weltering round him, far and wide, aimless, with
      in-articulate dissonance, with cries of ‘Veto! Patriot
      Ministers!’

      For the space of three hours or more! The National Assembly is
      adjourned; tricolor Municipals avail almost nothing: Mayor Pétion
      tarries absent; Authority is none. The Queen with her Children
      and Sister Elizabeth, in tears and terror not for themselves
      only, are sitting behind barricaded tables and Grenadiers in an
      inner room. The Men in Black have all wisely disappeared. Blind
      lake of Sansculottism welters stagnant through the King’s
      Château, for the space of three hours.

      Nevertheless all things do end. Vergniaud arrives with
      Legislative Deputation, the Evening Session having now opened.
      Mayor Pétion has arrived; is haranguing, “lifted on the shoulders
      of two Grenadiers.” In this uneasy attitude and in others, at
      various places without and within, Mayor Pétion harangues; many
      men harangue: finally Commandant Santerre defiles; passes out,
      with his Sansculottism, by the opposite side of the Château.
      Passing through the room where the Queen, with an air of dignity
      and sorrowful resignation, sat among the tables and Grenadiers, a
      woman offers her too a Red Cap; she holds it in her hand, even
      puts it on the little Prince Royal. ‘Madame,’ said Santerre,
      ‘this People loves you more than you think.’[473]—About eight
      o’clock the Royal Family fall into each other’s arms amid
      “torrents of tears.” Unhappy Family! Who would not weep for it,
      were there not a whole world to be wept for?

      Thus has the Age of Chivalry gone, and that of Hunger come. Thus
      does all-needing Sansculottism look in the face of its _Roi_,
      Regulator, King or Ableman; and find that _he_ has nothing to
      give it. Thus do the two Parties, brought face to face after long
      centuries, stare stupidly at one another, _This, verily, am I;
      but, Good Heaven, is that Thou?_—and depart, not knowing what to
      make of it. And yet, Incongruities having recognised themselves
      to be incongruous, something must be made of it. The Fates know
      what.

      This is the world-famous Twentieth of June, more worthy to be
      called the _Procession of the Black Breeches_. With which, what
      we had to say of this First French biennial Parliament, and its
      products and activities, may perhaps fitly enough terminate.


      BOOK 2.VI.
      THE MARSEILLESE


      Chapter 2.6.I.
      Executive that does not act.

      How could your paralytic National Executive be put “in action,”
      in any measure, by such a Twentieth of June as this? Quite
      contrariwise: a large sympathy for Majesty so insulted arises
      every where; expresses itself in Addresses, Petitions, “Petition
      of the Twenty Thousand inhabitants of Paris,” and such like,
      among all Constitutional persons; a decided rallying round the
      Throne.

      Of which rallying it was thought King Louis might have made
      something. However, he does make nothing of it, or attempt to
      make; for indeed his views are lifted beyond domestic sympathy
      and rallying, over to Coblentz mainly: neither in itself is the
      same sympathy worth much. It is sympathy of men who believe still
      that the Constitution can march. Wherefore the old discord and
      ferment, of Feuillant sympathy for Royalty, and Jacobin sympathy
      for Fatherland, acting against each other from within; with
      terror of Coblentz and Brunswick acting from without:—this
      discord and ferment must hold on its course, till a catastrophe
      do ripen and come. One would think, especially as Brunswick is
      near marching, such catastrophe cannot now be distant. Busy, ye
      Twenty-five French Millions; ye foreign Potentates, minatory
      Emigrants, German drill-serjeants; each do what his hand findeth!
      Thou, O Reader, at such safe distance, wilt see what they make of
      it among them.

      Consider therefore this pitiable Twentieth of June as a futility;
      no catastrophe, rather a _catastasis_, or heightening. Do not its
      Black Breeches wave there, in the Historical Imagination, like a
      melancholy flag of distress; soliciting help, which no mortal can
      give? Soliciting pity, which thou wert hard-hearted not to give
      freely, to one and all! Other such flags, or what are called
      Occurrences, and black or bright symbolic Phenomena; will flit
      through the Historical Imagination: these, one after one, let us
      note, with extreme brevity.

      The first phenomenon is that of Lafayette at the Bar of the
      Assembly; after a week and day. Promptly, on hearing of this
      scandalous Twentieth of June, Lafayette has quitted his Command
      on the North Frontier, in better or worse order; and got hither,
      on the 28th, to repress the Jacobins: not by Letter now; but by
      oral Petition, and weight of character, face to face. The august
      Assembly finds the step questionable; invites him meanwhile to
      the honours of the sitting.[474] Other honour, or advantage,
      there unhappily came almost none; the Galleries all growling;
      fiery Isnard glooming; sharp Guadet not wanting in sarcasms.

      And out of doors, when the sitting is over, Sieur Resson, keeper
      of the Patriot _Café_ in these regions, hears in the street a
      hurly-burly; steps forth to look, he and his Patriot customers:
      it is Lafayette’s carriage, with a tumultuous escort of blue
      Grenadiers, Cannoneers, even Officers of the Line, hurrahing and
      capering round it. They make a pause opposite Sieur Resson’s
      door; wag their plumes at him; nay shake their fists, bellowing
      _À bas les Jacobins!_ but happily pass on without onslaught. They
      pass on, to plant a _Mai_ before the General’s door, and bully
      considerably. All which the Sieur Resson cannot but report with
      sorrow, that night, in the Mother Society.[475] But what no Sieur
      Resson nor Mother Society can do more than guess is this, That a
      council of rank Feuillants, your unabolished Staff of the Guard
      and who else has status and weight, is in these very moments
      privily deliberating at the General’s: Can we not put down the
      Jacobins by force? Next day, a Review shall be held, in the
      Tuileries Garden, of such as will turn out, and try. Alas, says
      Toulongeon, hardly a hundred turned out. Put it off till
      tomorrow, then, to give better warning. On the morrow, which is
      Saturday, there turn out “some thirty;” and depart shrugging
      their shoulders![476] Lafayette promptly takes carriage again;
      returns musing on many things.

      The dust of Paris is hardly off his wheels, the summer Sunday is
      still young, when Cordeliers in deputation pluck up that _Mai_ of
      his: before sunset, Patriots have burnt him in effigy. Louder
      doubt and louder rises, in Section, in National Assembly, as to
      the legality of such unbidden Anti-jacobin visit on the part of a
      General: doubt swelling and spreading all over France, for six
      weeks or so: with endless talk about usurping soldiers, about
      English Monk, nay about Cromwell: O thou pour
      _Grandison_-Cromwell!—What boots it? King Louis himself looked
      coldly on the enterprize: colossal Hero of two Worlds, having
      weighed himself in the balance, finds that he is become a
      gossamer Colossus, only some thirty turning out.

      In a like sense, and with a like issue, works our
      Department-Directory here at Paris; who, on the 6th of July, take
      upon them to suspend Mayor Pétion and Procureur Manuel from all
      civic functions, for their conduct, replete, as is alleged, with
      omissions and commissions, on that delicate Twentieth of June.
      Virtuous Pétion sees himself a kind of martyr, or pseudo-martyr,
      threatened with several things; drawls out due heroical
      lamentation; to which Patriot Paris and Patriot Legislative duly
      respond. King Louis and Mayor Pétion have already had an
      interview on that business of the Twentieth; an interview and
      dialogue, distinguished by frankness on both sides; ending on
      King Louis’s side with the words, ‘_Taisez-vous_, Hold your
      peace.’

      For the rest, this of suspending our Mayor does seem a mistimed
      measure. By ill chance, it came out precisely on the day of that
      famous _Baiser de l’amourette_, or miraculous reconciliatory
      Delilah-Kiss, which we spoke of long ago. Which Delilah-Kiss was
      thereby quite hindered of effect. For now his Majesty has to
      write, almost that same night, asking a reconciled Assembly for
      advice! The reconciled Assembly will not advise; will not
      interfere. The King confirms the suspension; then perhaps, but
      not till then will the Assembly interfere, the noise of Patriot
      Paris getting loud. Whereby your Delilah-Kiss, such was the
      destiny of Parliament First, becomes a Philistine Battle!

      Nay there goes a word that as many as Thirty of our chief Patriot
      Senators are to be clapped in prison, by mittimus and indictment
      of Feuillant Justices, _Juges de Paix;_ who here in Paris were
      well capable of such a thing. It was but in May last that _Juge
      de Paix Larivière_, on complaint of Bertrand-Moleville touching
      that _Austrian Committee_, made bold to launch his mittimus
      against three heads of the Mountain, Deputies Bazire, Chabot,
      Merlin, the Cordelier Trio; summoning them to appear before
      _him_, and shew where that Austrian Committee was, or else suffer
      the consequences. Which mittimus the Trio, on their side, made
      bold to fling in the fire: and valiantly pleaded privilege of
      Parliament. So that, for his zeal without knowledge, poor Justice
      Larivière now sits in the prison of Orléans, waiting trial from
      the _Haute Cour_ there. Whose example, may it not deter other
      rash Justices; and so this word of the Thirty arrestments
      continue a word merely?

      But on the whole, though Lafayette weighed so light, and has had
      his _Mai_ plucked up, Official Feuillantism falters not a whit;
      but carries its head high, strong in the letter of the Law.
      Feuillants all of these men: a Feuillant Directory; founding on
      high character, and such like; with Duke de la Rochefoucault for
      President,—a thing which may prove dangerous for him! Dim now is
      the once bright Anglomania of these admired Noblemen. Duke de
      Liancourt offers, out of Normandy where he is Lord-Lieutenant,
      not only to receive his Majesty, thinking of flight thither, but
      to lend him money to enormous amounts. Sire, it is not a Revolt,
      it is a Revolution; and truly no rose-water one! Worthier
      Noblemen were not in France nor in Europe than those two: but the
      Time is crooked, quick-shifting, perverse; what straightest
      course will lead to any goal, in _it?_

      Another phasis which we note, in these early July days, is that
      of certain thin streaks of Federate National Volunteers wending
      from various points towards Paris, to hold a new
      Federation-Festival, or Feast of Pikes, on the Fourteenth there.
      So has the National Assembly wished it, so has the Nation willed
      it. In this way, perhaps, may we still have our Patriot Camp in
      spite of _Veto_. For cannot these Fédérés, having celebrated
      their Feast of Pikes, march on to Soissons; and, there being
      drilled and regimented, rush to the Frontiers, or whither we
      like? Thus were the one _Veto_ cunningly eluded!

      As indeed the other _Veto_, about Priests, is also like to be
      eluded; and without much cunning. For Provincial Assemblies, in
      Calvados as one instance, are proceeding on their own strength to
      judge and banish Antinational Priests. Or still worse without
      Provincial Assembly, a desperate People, as at Bourdeaux, can
      “hang two of them on the Lanterne,” on the way towards
      judgment.[477] Pity for the spoken _Veto_, when it cannot become
      an acted one!

      It is true, some ghost of a War-minister, or Home-minister, for
      the time being, ghost whom we do not name, does write to
      Municipalities and King’s Commanders, that they shall, by all
      conceivable methods, obstruct this Federation, and even turn back
      the Fédérés by force of arms: a message which scatters mere
      doubt, paralysis and confusion; irritates the poor Legislature;
      reduces the Fédérés as we see, to thin streaks. But being
      questioned, this ghost and the other ghosts, What it is then that
      they propose to do for saving the country?—they answer, That they
      cannot tell; that indeed they for their part have, this morning,
      resigned in a body; and do now merely respectfully take leave of
      the helm altogether. With which words they rapidly walk out of
      the Hall, _sortent brusquement de la salle_, the “Galleries
      cheering loudly,” the poor Legislature sitting “for a good while
      in silence!”[478] Thus do Cabinet-ministers themselves, in
      extreme cases, strike work; one of the strangest omens. Other
      complete Cabinet-ministry there will not be; only fragments, and
      these changeful, which never get completed; spectral Apparitions
      that cannot so much as appear! King Louis writes that he now
      views this Federation Feast with approval; and will himself have
      the pleasure to take part in the same.

      And so these thin streaks of Fédérés wend Parisward through a
      paralytic France. Thin grim streaks; not thick joyful ranks, as
      of old to the first Feast of Pikes! No: these poor Federates
      march now towards Austria and Austrian Committee, towards
      jeopardy and forlorn hope; men of hard fortune and temper, not
      rich in the world’s goods. Municipalities, paralyzed by
      War-ministers, are shy of affording cash: it may be, your poor
      Federates cannot arm themselves, cannot march, till the
      Daughter-Society of the place open her pocket, and subscribe.
      There will not have arrived, at the set day, Three thousand of
      them in all. And yet, thin and feeble as these streaks of
      Federates seem, they are the only thing one discerns moving with
      any clearness of aim, in this strange scene. Angry buzz and
      simmer; uneasy tossing and moaning of a huge France, all
      enchanted, spell-bound by unmarching Constitution, into frightful
      conscious and unconscious Magnetic-sleep; which frightful
      Magnetic-sleep must now issue soon in one of two things: Death or
      Madness! The Fédérés carry mostly in their pocket some earnest
      cry and Petition, to have the “National Executive put in action;”
      or as a step towards that, to have the King’s _Déchéance_, King’s
      Forfeiture, or at least his Suspension, pronounced. They shall be
      welcome to the Legislative, to the Mother of Patriotism; and
      Paris will provide for their lodging.

      _Déchéance_, indeed: and, what next? A France spell-free, a
      Revolution saved; and any thing, and all things next! so answer
      grimly Danton and the unlimited Patriots, down deep in their
      subterranean region of Plot, whither they have now dived.
      _Déchéance_, answers Brissot with the limited: And if next the
      little Prince Royal were crowned, and some Regency of Girondins
      and recalled Patriot Ministry set over him? Alas, poor Brissot;
      looking, as indeed poor man does always, on the nearest morrow as
      his peaceable promised land; deciding what must reach to the
      world’s end, yet with an insight that reaches not beyond his own
      nose! Wiser are the unlimited subterranean Patriots, who with
      light for the hour itself, leave the rest to the gods.

      Or were it not, as we now stand, the probablest issue of all,
      that Brunswick, in Coblentz, just gathering his huge limbs
      towards him to rise, might arrive first; and stop both
      _Déchéance_, and theorizing on it? Brunswick is on the eve of
      marching; with Eighty Thousand, they say; fell Prussians,
      Hessians, feller Emigrants: a General of the Great Frederick,
      with such an Army. And our Armies? And our Generals? As for
      Lafayette, on whose late visit a Committee is sitting and all
      France is jarring and censuring, he seems readier to fight _us_
      than fight Brunswick. Lückner and Lafayette pretend to be
      interchanging corps, and are making movements; which Patriotism
      cannot understand. This only is very clear, that their corps go
      marching and shuttling, in the interior of the country; much
      nearer Paris than formerly! Lückner has ordered Dumouriez down to
      him, down from Maulde, and the Fortified Camp there. Which order
      the many-counselled Dumouriez, with the Austrians hanging close
      on him, he busy meanwhile training a few thousands to stand fire
      and be soldiers, declares that, come of it what will, he cannot
      obey.[479] Will a poor Legislative, therefore, sanction
      Dumouriez; who applies to it, “not knowing whether there is any
      War-ministry?” Or sanction Lückner and these Lafayette movements?

      The poor Legislative knows not what to do. It decrees, however,
      that the Staff of the Paris Guard, and indeed all such Staffs,
      for they are Feuillants mostly, shall be broken and replaced. It
      decrees earnestly in what manner one can declare that the
      _Country is in Danger_. And finally, on the 11th of July, the
      morrow of that day when the Ministry struck work, it decrees that
      _the Country be_, with all despatch, _declared in Danger_.
      Whereupon let the King sanction; let the Municipality take
      measures: if such Declaration will do service, _it_ need not
      fail.

      In Danger, truly, if ever Country was! Arise, O Country; or be
      trodden down to ignominious ruin! Nay, are not the chances a
      hundred to one that no rising of the Country will save it;
      Brunswick, the Emigrants, and Feudal Europe drawing nigh?


      Chapter 2.6.II.
      Let us march.

      But to our minds the notablest of all these moving phenomena, is
      that of Barbaroux’s “Six Hundred Marseillese who know how to
      die.”

      Prompt to the request of Barbaroux, the Marseilles Municipality
      has got these men together: on the fifth morning of July, the
      Townhall says, ‘_Marchez, abatez le Tyran_, March, strike down
      the Tyrant;’[480] and they, with grim appropriate ‘_Marchons_,’
      are marching. Long journey, doubtful errand; _Enfans de la
      Patrie_, may a good genius guide you! Their own wild heart and
      what faith it has will guide them: and is not that the monition
      of some genius, better or worse? Five Hundred and Seventeen able
      men, with Captains of fifties and tens; well armed all, musket on
      shoulder, sabre on thigh: nay they drive three pieces of cannon;
      for who knows what obstacles may occur? Municipalities there are,
      paralyzed by War-minister; Commandants with orders to stop even
      Federation Volunteers; good, when sound arguments will not open a
      Town-gate, if you have a petard to shiver it! They have left
      their sunny Phocean City and Sea-haven, with its bustle and its
      bloom: the thronging _Course_, with high-frondent Avenues, pitchy
      dockyards, almond and olive groves, orange trees on house-tops,
      and white glittering _bastides_ that crown the hills, are all
      behind them. They wend on their wild way, from the extremity of
      French land, through unknown cities, toward an unknown destiny;
      with a purpose that they know.

      Much wondering at this phenomenon, and how, in a peaceable
      trading City, so many householders or hearth-holders do severally
      fling down their crafts and industrial tools; gird themselves
      with weapons of war, and set out on a journey of six hundred
      miles to “strike down the tyrant,”—you search in all Historical
      Books, Pamphlets, and Newspapers, for some light on it: unhappily
      without effect. Rumour and Terror precede this march; which still
      echo on you; the march itself an unknown thing. Weber, in the
      back-stairs of the Tuileries, has understood that they were
      _Forçats_, Galley-slaves and mere scoundrels, these Marseillese;
      that, as they marched through Lyons, the people shut their
      shops;—also that the number of them was some Four _Thousand_.
      Equally vague is Blanc Gilli, who likewise murmurs about
      _Forçats_ and danger of plunder.[481] _Forçats_ they were not;
      neither was there plunder, or danger of it. Men of regular life,
      or of the best-filled purse, they could hardly be; the one thing
      needful in them was that they “knew how to die.” Friend
      Dampmartin saw them, with his own eyes, march “gradually” through
      his quarters at Villefranche in the Beaujolais: but saw in the
      vaguest manner; being indeed preoccupied, and himself minded for
      matching just then—across the Rhine. Deep was his astonishment to
      think of such a march, without appointment or arrangement,
      station or ration: for the rest it was “the same men he had seen
      formerly” in the troubles of the South; “perfectly civil;” though
      his soldiers could not be kept from talking a little with
      them.[482]

      So vague are all these; _Moniteur, Histoire Parlementaire_ are as
      good as silent: garrulous History, as is too usual, will say
      nothing where you most wish her to speak! If enlightened
      Curiosity ever get sight of the Marseilles Council-Books, will it
      not perhaps explore this strangest of Municipal procedures; and
      feel called to fish up what of the Biographies, creditable or
      discreditable, of these Five Hundred and Seventeen, the stream of
      Time has not yet irrevocably swallowed?

      As it is, these Marseillese remain inarticulate,
      undistinguishable in feature; a blackbrowed Mass, full of grim
      fire, who wend there, in the hot sultry weather: very singular to
      contemplate. They wend; amid the infinitude of doubt and dim
      peril; they not doubtful: Fate and Feudal Europe, having decided,
      come girdling in from without: they, having also decided, do
      march within. Dusty of face, with frugal refreshment, they plod
      onwards; unweariable, not to be turned aside. Such march will
      become famous. The Thought, which works voiceless in this
      blackbrowed mass, an inspired Tyrtæan Colonel, Rouget de Lille,
      whom the Earth still holds,[483] has translated into grim melody
      and rhythm; into his _Hymn_ or March _of the Marseillese:_
      luckiest musical-composition ever promulgated. The sound of which
      will make the blood tingle in men’s veins; and whole Armies and
      Assemblages will sing it, with eyes weeping and burning, with
      hearts defiant of Death, Despot and Devil.

      One sees well, these Marseillese will be too late for the
      Federation Feast. In fact, it is not Champ-de-Mars Oaths that
      they have in view. They have quite another feat to do: a
      paralytic National Executive to set in action. They must “strike
      down” whatsoever “Tyrant,” or Martyr-Fainéant, there may be who
      paralyzes it; strike and be struck; and on the whole prosper and
      know how to die.


      Chapter 2.6.III.
      Some Consolation to Mankind.

      Of the Federation Feast itself we shall say almost nothing. There
      are Tents pitched in the Champ-de-Mars; tent for National
      Assembly; tent for Hereditary Representative,—who indeed is there
      too early, and has to wait long in it. There are Eighty-three
      symbolical Departmental Trees-of-Liberty; trees and _mais_
      enough: beautifullest of all these is one huge _mai_, hung round
      with effete Scutcheons, Emblazonries and Genealogy-books; nay
      better still, with Lawyers’-bags, “_sacs de procédure:_” which
      shall be burnt. The Thirty seat-rows of that famed Slope are
      again full; we have a bright Sun; and all is marching,
      streamering and blaring: but what avails it? Virtuous Mayor
      Pétion, whom Feuillantism had suspended, was reinstated only last
      night, by Decree of the Assembly. Men’s humour is of the sourest.
      Men’s hats have on them, written in chalk, “_Vive Pétion;_” and
      even, “Pétion or Death, _Pétion ou la Mort_.”

      Poor Louis, who has waited till five o’clock before the Assembly
      would arrive, swears the National Oath this time, with a quilted
      cuirass under his waistcoat which will turn pistol-bullets.[484]
      Madame de Staël, from that Royal Tent, stretches out the neck in
      a kind of agony, lest the waving multitudes which receive him may
      not render him back alive. No cry of _Vive le Roi_ salutes the
      ear; cries only of _Vive Pétion; Pétion ou la Mort_. The National
      Solemnity is as it were huddled by; each cowering off almost
      before the evolutions are gone through. The very _Mai_ with its
      Scutcheons and Lawyers’-bags is forgotten, stands unburnt; till
      “certain Patriot Deputies,” called by the people, set a torch to
      it, by way of voluntary after-piece. Sadder Feast of Pikes no man
      ever saw.

      Mayor Pétion, named on hats, is at his zenith in this Federation;
      Lafayette again is close upon his nadir. Why does the stormbell
      of Saint-Roch speak out, next Saturday; why do the citizens shut
      their shops?[485] It is Sections defiling, it is fear of
      effervescence. Legislative Committee, long deliberating on
      Lafayette and that Anti-jacobin Visit of his, reports, this day,
      that there is “_not_ ground for Accusation!” Peace, ye Patriots,
      nevertheless; and let that tocsin cease: the Debate is not
      finished, nor the Report accepted; but Brissot, Isnard and the
      Mountain will sift it, and resift it, perhaps for some three
      weeks longer.

      So many bells, stormbells and noises do ring;—scarcely audible;
      one drowning the other. For example: in this same Lafayette
      tocsin, of Saturday, was there not withal some faint bob-minor,
      and Deputation of Legislative, ringing the Chevalier Paul Jones
      to his long rest; tocsin or dirge now all one to him! Not ten
      days hence Patriot Brissot, beshouted this day by the Patriot
      Galleries, shall find himself begroaned by them, on account of
      his limited Patriotism; nay pelted at while perorating, and “hit
      with two prunes.”[486] It is a distracted empty-sounding world;
      of bob-minors and bob-majors, of triumph and terror, of rise and
      fall!

      The more touching is this other Solemnity, which happens on the
      morrow of the Lafayette tocsin: Proclamation that the _Country is
      in Danger_. Not till the present Sunday could such Solemnity be.
      The Legislative decreed it almost a fortnight ago; but Royalty
      and the ghost of a Ministry held back as they could. Now however,
      on this Sunday, 22nd day of July 1792, it will hold back no
      longer; and the Solemnity in very deed is. Touching to behold!
      Municipality and Mayor have on their scarfs; cannon-salvo booms
      alarm from the Pont-Neuf, and single-gun at intervals all day.
      Guards are mounted, scarfed Notabilities, Halberdiers, and a
      Cavalcade; with streamers, emblematic flags; especially with one
      huge Flag, flapping mournfully: _Citoyens, la Patrie est en
      Danger_. They roll through the streets, with stern-sounding
      music, and slow rattle of hoofs: pausing at set stations, and
      with doleful blast of trumpet, singing out through Herald’s
      throat, what the Flag says to the eye: ‘Citizens, the Country is
      in Danger!’

      Is there a man’s heart that hears it without a thrill? The
      many-voiced responsive hum or bellow of these multitudes is not
      of triumph; and yet it is a sound deeper than triumph. But when
      the long Cavalcade and Proclamation ended; and our huge Flag was
      fixed on the Pont Neuf, another like it on the Hôtel-de-Ville, to
      wave there till better days; and each Municipal sat in the centre
      of his Section, in a Tent raised in some open square, Tent
      surmounted with flags of _Patrie en Danger_, and topmost of all a
      Pike and _Bonnet Rouge;_ and, on two drums in front of him, there
      lay a plank-table, and on this an open Book, and a Clerk sat,
      like recording-angel, ready to write the Lists, or as we say to
      enlist! O, then, it seems, the very gods might have looked down
      on it. Young Patriotism, Culottic and Sansculottic, rushes
      forward emulous: That is my name; name, blood, and life, is all
      my Country’s; why have I nothing more! Youths of short stature
      weep that they are below size. Old men come forward, a son in
      each hand. Mothers themselves will grant the son of their
      travail; send him, though with tears. And the multitude bellows
      _Vive la Patrie_, far reverberating. And fire flashes in the eyes
      of men;—and at eventide, your Municipal returns to the Townhall,
      followed by his long train of volunteer Valour; hands in his
      List: says proudly, looking round. This is my day’s harvest.[487]
      They will march, on the morrow, to Soissons; small bundle holding
      all their chattels.

      So, with _Vive la Patrie, Vive la Liberté_, stone Paris
      reverberates like Ocean in his caves; day after day, Municipals
      enlisting in tricolor Tent; the Flag flapping on Pont Neuf and
      Townhall, _Citoyens, la Patrie est en Danger_. Some Ten thousand
      fighters, without discipline but full of heart, are on march in
      few days. The like is doing in every Town of France.—Consider
      therefore whether the Country will want defenders, had we but a
      National Executive? Let the Sections and Primary Assemblies, at
      any rate, become Permanent, and sit continually in Paris, and
      over France, by Legislative Decree dated Wednesday the 25th.[488]

      Mark contrariwise how, in these very hours, dated the 25th,
      Brunswick shakes himself “_s’ébranle_,” in Coblentz; and takes
      the road! Shakes himself indeed; one spoken word becomes such a
      shaking. Successive, simultaneous _dirl_ of thirty thousand
      muskets shouldered; prance and jingle of ten-thousand horsemen,
      fanfaronading Emigrants in the van; drum, kettle-drum; noise of
      weeping, swearing; and the immeasurable lumbering clank of
      baggage-waggons and camp-kettles that groan into motion: all this
      is Brunswick shaking himself; not without all this does the one
      man march, “covering a space of forty miles.” Still less without
      his Manifesto, dated, as we say, the 25th; a State-Paper worthy
      of attention!

      By this Document, it would seem great things are in store for
      France. The universal French People shall now have permission to
      rally round Brunswick and his Emigrant Seigneurs; tyranny of a
      Jacobin Faction shall oppress them no more; but they shall
      return, and find favour with their own good King; who, by Royal
      Declaration (three years ago) of the Twenty-third of June, said
      that he would himself make them happy. As for National Assembly,
      and other Bodies of Men invested with some temporary shadow of
      authority, they are charged to maintain the King’s Cities and
      Strong Places intact, till Brunswick arrive to take delivery of
      them. Indeed, quick submission may extenuate many things; but to
      this end it must be quick. Any National Guard or other unmilitary
      person found resisting in arms shall be “treated as a traitor;”
      that is to say, hanged with promptitude. For the rest, if Paris,
      before Brunswick gets thither, offer any insult to the King: or,
      for example, suffer a faction to carry the King away elsewhither;
      in that case Paris shall be blasted asunder with cannon-shot and
      “military execution.” Likewise all other Cities, which may
      witness, and not resist to the uttermost, such forced-march of
      his Majesty, shall be blasted asunder; and Paris and every City
      of them, starting-place, course and goal of said sacrilegious
      forced-march, shall, as rubbish and smoking ruin, lie there for a
      sign. Such vengeance were indeed signal, “an _insigne
      vengeance:_”—O Brunswick, what words thou writest and blusterest!
      In this Paris, as in old Nineveh, are so many score thousands
      that know not the right hand from the left, and also much cattle.
      Shall the very milk-cows, hard-living cadgers’-asses, and poor
      little canary-birds die?

      Nor is Royal and Imperial Prussian-Austrian Declaration wanting:
      setting forth, in the amplest manner, their Sanssouci-Schonbrunn
      version of this whole French Revolution, since the first
      beginning of it; and with what grief these high heads have seen
      such things done under the Sun: however, “as some small
      consolation to mankind,”[489] they do now despatch Brunswick;
      regardless of expense, as one might say, of sacrifices on their
      own part; for is it not the first duty to console men?

      Serene Highnesses, who sit there protocolling and manifestoing,
      and consoling mankind! how were it if, for once in the thousand
      years, your parchments, formularies, and reasons of state were
      blown to the four winds; and Reality Sans-indispensables stared
      you, even you, in the face; and Mankind said for itself what the
      thing was that would console it?—


      Chapter 2.6.IV.
      Subterranean.

      But judge if there was comfort in this to the Sections all
      sitting permanent; deliberating how a National Executive could be
      put in action!

      High rises the response, not of cackling terror, but of crowing
      counter-defiance, and _Vive la Nation;_ young Valour streaming
      towards the Frontiers; _Patrie en Danger_ mutely beckoning on the
      Pont Neuf. Sections are busy, in their permanent Deep; and down,
      lower still, works unlimited Patriotism, seeking salvation in
      plot. Insurrection, you would say, becomes once more the
      sacredest of duties? Committee, self-chosen, is sitting at the
      Sign of the Golden Sun: Journalist Carra, Camille Desmoulins,
      Alsatian Westermann friend of Danton, American Fournier of
      Martinique;—a Committee not unknown to Mayor Pétion, who, as an
      official person, must sleep with one eye open. Not unknown to
      Procureur Manuel; least of all to Procureur-Substitute Danton!
      He, wrapped in darkness, being also official, bears it on his
      giant shoulder; cloudy invisible Atlas of the whole.

      Much is invisible; the very Jacobins have their reticences.
      Insurrection is to be: but when? This only we can discern, that
      such Fédérés as are not yet gone to Soissons, as indeed are not
      inclined to go yet, ‘for reasons,’ says the Jacobin President,
      ‘which it may be interesting not to state,’ have got a _Central
      Committee_ sitting close by, under the roof of the Mother Society
      herself. Also, what in such ferment and danger of effervescence
      is surely proper, the Forty-eight Sections have got their Central
      Committee; intended “for prompt communication.” To which Central
      Committee the Municipality, anxious to have it at hand, could not
      refuse an Apartment in the Hôtel-de-Ville.

      Singular City! For overhead of all this, there is the customary
      baking and brewing; Labour hammers and grinds. Frilled
      promenaders saunter under the trees; white-muslin promenaderess,
      in green parasol, leaning on your arm. Dogs dance, and shoeblacks
      polish, on that Pont Neuf itself, where Fatherland is in danger.
      So much goes its course; and yet the course of all things is nigh
      altering and ending.

      Look at that Tuileries and Tuileries Garden. Silent all as
      Sahara; none entering save by ticket! They shut their Gates,
      after the Day of the Black Breeches; a thing they had the liberty
      to do. However, the National Assembly grumbled something about
      Terrace of the Feuillants, how said Terrace lay contiguous to the
      back entrance to their Salle, and was partly _National Property;_
      and so now National Justice has stretched a Tricolor Riband
      athwart, by way of boundary-line, respected with splenetic
      strictness by all Patriots. It hangs there that Tricolor
      boundary-line; carries “satirical inscriptions on cards,”
      generally in verse; and all beyond this is called _Coblentz_, and
      remains vacant; silent, as a fateful Golgotha; sunshine and
      umbrage alternating on it in vain. Fateful Circuit; what hope can
      dwell in it? Mysterious Tickets of Entry introduce themselves;
      speak of Insurrection very imminent. Rivarol’s Staff of Genius
      had better purchase blunderbusses; Grenadier bonnets, red Swiss
      uniforms may be useful. Insurrection will come; but likewise will
      it not be met? Staved off, one may hope, till Brunswick arrive?

      But consider withal if the Bourne-stones and Portable chairs
      remain silent; if the Herald’s College of Bill-Stickers sleep!
      Louvet’s _Sentinel_ warns gratis on all walls; Sulleau is busy:
      _People’s-Friend_ Marat and _King’s-Friend_ Royou croak and
      counter-croak. For the man Marat, though long hidden since that
      Champ-de-Mars Massacre, is still alive. He has lain, who knows in
      what Cellars; perhaps in Legendre’s; fed by a steak of Legendre’s
      killing: but, since April, the bull-frog voice of him sounds
      again; hoarsest of earthly cries. For the present, black terror
      haunts him: O brave Barbaroux wilt thou not smuggle me to
      Marseilles, “disguised as a jockey?”[490] In Palais-Royal and all
      public places, as we read, there is sharp activity; private
      individuals haranguing that Valour may enlist; haranguing that
      the Executive may be put in action. Royalist journals ought to be
      solemnly burnt: argument thereupon; debates which generally end
      in single-stick, _coups de cannes_.[491] Or think of this; the
      hour midnight; place Salle de Manége; august Assembly just
      adjourning: “Citizens of both sexes enter in a rush exclaiming,
      _Vengeance: they are poisoning our Brothers;_”—baking
      brayed-glass among their bread at Soissons! Vergniaud has to
      speak soothing words, How Commissioners are already sent to
      investigate this brayed-glass, and do what is needful therein:
      till the rush of Citizens “makes profound silence:” and goes home
      to its bed.

      Such is Paris; the heart of a France like to it. Preternatural
      suspicion, doubt, disquietude, nameless anticipation, from shore
      to shore:—and those blackbrowed Marseillese, marching, dusty,
      unwearied, through the midst of it; not doubtful they. Marching
      to the grim music of their hearts, they consume continually the
      long road, these three weeks and more; heralded by Terror and
      Rumour. The Brest Fédérés arrive on the 26th; through hurrahing
      streets. Determined men are these also, bearing or not bearing
      the Sacred Pikes of Château-Vieux; and on the whole decidedly
      disinclined for Soissons as yet. Surely the Marseillese Brethren
      do draw nigher all days.


      Chapter 2.6.V.
      At Dinner.

      It was a bright day for Charenton, that 29th of the month, when
      the Marseillese Brethren actually came in sight. Barbaroux,
      Santerre and Patriots have gone out to meet the grim Wayfarers.
      Patriot clasps dusty Patriot to his bosom; there is footwashing
      and refection: “dinner of twelve hundred covers at the Blue Dial,
      _Cadran Bleu;_” and deep interior consultation, that one wots not
      of.[492] Consultation indeed which comes to little; for Santerre,
      with an open purse, with a loud voice, has almost no head. Here
      however we repose this night: on the morrow is public entry into
      Paris.

      On which public entry the Day-Historians, _Diurnalists_, or
      Journalists as they call themselves, have preserved record
      enough. How Saint-Antoine male and female, and Paris generally,
      gave brotherly welcome, with bravo and hand-clapping, in crowded
      streets; and all passed in the peaceablest manner;—except it
      might be our Marseillese pointed out here and there a
      riband-cockade, and beckoned that it should be snatched away, and
      exchanged for a wool one; which was done. How the Mother Society
      in a body has come as far as the Bastille-ground, to embrace you.
      How you then wend onwards, triumphant, to the Townhall, to be
      embraced by Mayor Pétion; to put down your muskets in the
      Barracks of Nouvelle France, not far off;—then towards the
      appointed Tavern in the Champs Elysées to enjoy a frugal Patriot
      repast.[493]

      Of all which the indignant Tuileries may, by its Tickets of
      Entry, have warning. Red Swiss look doubly sharp to their
      Château-Grates;—though surely there is no danger? Blue Grenadiers
      of the Filles-Saint-Thomas Section are on duty there this day:
      men of Agio, as we have seen; with stuffed purses,
      riband-cockades; among whom serves Weber. A party of these
      latter, with Captains, with sundry Feuillant Notabilities, Moreau
      de Saint-Méry of the three thousand orders, and others, have been
      dining, much more respectably, in a Tavern hard by. They have
      dined, and are now drinking Loyal-Patriotic toasts; while the
      Marseillese, _National_-Patriotic merely, are about sitting down
      to their frugal covers of delf. How it happened remains to this
      day undemonstrable: but the external fact is, certain of these
      Filles-Saint-Thomas Grenadiers do issue from their Tavern;
      perhaps touched, surely not yet muddled with any liquor they have
      had;—issue in the professed intention of testifying to the
      Marseillese, or to the multitude of Paris Patriots who stroll in
      these spaces, That they, the Filles-Saint-Thomas men, if well
      seen into, are not a whit less Patriotic than any other class of
      men whatever.

      It was a rash errand! For how can the strolling multitudes credit
      such a thing; or do other indeed than hoot at it, provoking, and
      provoked;—till Grenadier sabres stir in the scabbard, and a sharp
      shriek rises: ‘_À nous Marseillais_, Help Marseillese!’ Quick as
      lightning, for the frugal repast is not yet served, that
      Marseillese Tavern flings itself open: by door, by window;
      running, bounding, vault forth the Five hundred and Seventeen
      undined Patriots; and, sabre flashing from thigh, are on the
      scene of controversy. Will ye parley, ye Grenadier Captains and
      official Persons; “with faces grown suddenly pale,” the Deponents
      say?[494] Advisabler were instant moderately swift retreat! The
      Filles-Saint-Thomas retreat, back foremost; then, alas, face
      foremost, at treble-quick time; the Marseillese, according to a
      Deponent, ‘clearing the fences and ditches after them like lions:
      Messieurs, it was an imposing spectacle.’

      Thus they retreat, the Marseillese following. Swift and swifter,
      towards the Tuileries: where the Drawbridge receives the bulk of
      the fugitives; and, then suddenly drawn up, saves them; or else
      the green mud of the Ditch does it. The bulk of them; not all;
      ah, no! Moreau de Saint-Méry for example, being too fat, could
      not fly fast; he got a stroke, _flat_-stroke only, over the
      shoulder-blades, and fell prone;—and disappears there from the
      History of the Revolution. Cuts also there were, pricks in the
      posterior fleshy parts; much rending of skirts, and other
      discrepant waste. But poor Sub-lieutenant Duhamel, innocent
      Change-broker, what a lot for him! He turned on his pursuer, or
      pursuers, with a pistol; he fired and missed; drew a second
      pistol, and again fired and missed; then ran: unhappily in vain.
      In the Rue Saint-Florentin, they clutched him; thrust him
      through, in red rage: that was the end of the New Era, and of all
      Eras, to poor Duhamel.

      Pacific readers can fancy what sort of grace-before-meat this was
      to frugal Patriotism. Also how the Battalion of the
      Filles-Saint-Thomas “drew out in arms,” luckily without further
      result; how there was accusation at the Bar of the Assembly, and
      counter-accusation and defence; Marseillese challenging the
      sentence of free jury court,—which never got to a decision. We
      ask rather, What the upshot of all these distracted wildly
      accumulating things may, by probability, be? Some upshot; and the
      time draws nigh! Busy are Central Committees, of Fédérés at the
      Jacobins Church, of Sections at the Townhall; Reunion of Carra,
      Camille and Company at the Golden Sun. Busy: like submarine
      deities, or call them mud-gods, working there in the deep murk of
      waters: till the thing be ready.

      And how your National Assembly, like a ship waterlogged,
      helmless, lies tumbling; the Galleries, of shrill Women, of
      Fédérés with sabres, bellowing down on it, not unfrightful;—and
      waits where the waves of chance may please to strand it;
      suspicious, nay on the Left side, conscious, what submarine
      Explosion is meanwhile a-charging! Petition for King’s Forfeiture
      rises often there: Petition from Paris Section, from Provincial
      Patriot Towns; From Alencon, Briancon, and “the Traders at the
      Fair of Beaucaire.” Or what of these? On the 3rd of August, Mayor
      Pétion and the Municipality come petitioning for Forfeiture: they
      openly, in their tricolor Municipal scarfs. Forfeiture is what
      all Patriots now want and expect. All Brissotins want Forfeiture;
      with the little Prince Royal for King, and us for Protector over
      him. Emphatic Fédérés asks the legislature: ‘Can you save us, or
      not?’ Forty-seven Sections have agreed to Forfeiture; only that
      of the Filles-Saint-Thomas pretending to disagree. Nay Section
      Mauconseil declares Forfeiture to be, properly speaking, come;
      Mauconseil for one “does from this day,” the last of July, “cease
      allegiance to Louis,” and take minute of the same before all men.
      A thing blamed aloud; but which will be praised aloud; and the
      name _Mauconseil_, of Ill-counsel, be thenceforth changed to
      _Bonconseil_, of Good-counsel.

      President Danton, in the Cordeliers Section, does another thing:
      invites all Passive Citizens to take place among the Active in
      Section-business, one peril threatening all. Thus he, though an
      official person; cloudy Atlas of the whole. Likewise he manages
      to have that blackbrowed Battalion of Marseillese shifted to new
      Barracks, in his own region of the remote South-East. Sleek
      Chaumette, cruel Billaud, Deputy Chabot the Disfrocked, Huguenin
      with the tocsin in his heart, will welcome them there. Wherefore,
      again and again: ‘O Legislators, can you save us or not?’ Poor
      Legislators; with their Legislature waterlogged, volcanic
      Explosion charging under it! Forfeiture shall be debated on the
      ninth day of August; that miserable business of Lafayette may be
      expected to terminate on the eighth.

      Or will the humane Reader glance into the Levee-day of Sunday the
      fifth? The last Levee! Not for a long time, “never,” says
      Bertrand-Moleville, had a Levee been so brilliant, at least so
      crowded. A sad presaging interest sat on every face; Bertrand’s
      own eyes were filled with tears. For, indeed, outside of that
      Tricolor Riband on the Feuillants Terrace, Legislature is
      debating, Sections are defiling, all Paris is astir this very
      Sunday, demanding _Déchéance_.[495] Here, however, within the
      riband, a grand proposal is on foot, for the hundredth time, of
      carrying his Majesty to Rouen and the Castle of Gaillon. Swiss at
      Courbevoye are in readiness; much is ready; Majesty himself seems
      almost ready. Nevertheless, for the hundredth time, Majesty, when
      near the point of action, draws back; writes, after one has
      waited, palpitating, an endless summer day, that “he has reason
      to believe the Insurrection is not so ripe as you suppose.”
      Whereat Bertrand-Moleville breaks forth “into extremity at one of
      spleen and despair, _d’humeur et de désespoir_.”[496]


      Chapter 2.6.VI.
      The Steeples at Midnight.

      For, in truth, the Insurrection is just about ripe. Thursday is
      the ninth of the month August: if Forfeiture be not pronounced by
      the Legislature that day, we must pronounce it ourselves.

      Legislature? A poor waterlogged Legislature can pronounce
      nothing. On Wednesday the eighth, after endless oratory once
      again, they cannot even pronounce Accusation again Lafayette; but
      absolve him,—hear it, Patriotism!—by a majority of two to one.
      Patriotism hears it; Patriotism, hounded on by Prussian Terror,
      by Preternatural Suspicion, roars tumultuous round the Salle de
      Manége, all day; insults many leading Deputies, of the absolvent
      Right-side; nay chases them, collars them with loud menace:
      Deputy Vaublanc, and others of the like, are glad to take refuge
      in Guardhouses, and escape by the back window. And so, next day,
      there is infinite complaint; Letter after Letter from insulted
      Deputy; mere complaint, debate and self-cancelling jargon: the
      sun of Thursday sets like the others, and no Forfeiture
      pronounced. Wherefore in fine, To your tents, O Israel!

      The Mother-Society ceases speaking; groups cease haranguing:
      Patriots, with closed lips now, “take one another’s arm;” walk
      off, in rows, two and two, at a brisk business-pace; and vanish
      afar in the obscure places of the East.[497] Santerre is ready;
      or we will make him ready. Forty-seven of the Forty-eight
      Sections are ready; nay Filles-Saint-Thomas itself turns up the
      Jacobin side of it, turns down the Feuillant side of it, and is
      ready too. Let the unlimited Patriot look to his weapon, be it
      pike, be it firelock; and the Brest brethren, above all, the
      blackbrowed Marseillese prepare themselves for the extreme hour!
      Syndic Rœderer knows, and laments or not as the issue may turn,
      that “five thousand ball-cartridges, within these few days, have
      been distributed to Fédérés, at the Hôtel-de-Ville.”[498]

      And ye likewise, gallant gentlemen, defenders of Royalty, crowd
      ye on your side to the Tuileries. Not to a Levee: no, to a
      Couchée: where much will be put to bed. Your Tickets of Entry are
      needful; needfuller your blunderbusses!—They come and crowd, like
      gallant men who also know how to die: old Maillé the Camp-Marshal
      has come, his eyes gleaming once again, though dimmed by the
      rheum of almost four-score years. Courage, Brothers! We have a
      thousand red Swiss; men stanch of heart, steadfast as the granite
      of their Alps. National Grenadiers are at least friends of Order;
      Commandant Mandat breathes loyal ardour, will ‘answer for it on
      his head.’ Mandat will, and his Staff; for the Staff, though
      there stands a doom and Decree to that effect, is happily never
      yet dissolved.

      Commandant Mandat has corresponded with Mayor Pétion; carries a
      written Order from him these three days, to repel force by force.
      A squadron on the Pont Neuf with cannon shall turn back these
      Marseillese coming across the River: a squadron at the Townhall
      shall cut Saint-Antoine in two, “as it issues from the Arcade
      Saint-Jean;” drive one half back to the obscure East, drive the
      other half forward through “the Wickets of the Louvre.” Squadrons
      not a few, and mounted squadrons; squadrons in the Palais Royal,
      in the Place Vendôme: all these shall charge, at the right
      moment; sweep this street, and then sweep that. Some new
      Twentieth of June we shall have; only still more ineffectual? Or
      probably the Insurrection will not dare to rise at all? Mandat’s
      Squadrons, Horse-Gendarmerie and blue Guards march, clattering,
      tramping; Mandat’s Cannoneers rumble. Under cloud of night; to
      the sound of his _générale_, which begins drumming when men
      should go to bed. It is the 9th night of August, 1792.

      On the other hand, the Forty-eight Sections correspond by swift
      messengers; are choosing each their “three Delegates with full
      powers.” Syndic Rœderer, Mayor Pétion are sent for to the
      Tuileries: courageous Legislators, when the drum beats danger,
      should repair to their Salle. Demoiselle Théroigne has on her
      grenadier-bonnet, short-skirted riding-habit; two pistols garnish
      her small waist, and sabre hangs in baldric by her side.

      Such a game is playing in this Paris Pandemonium, or City of All
      the Devils!—And yet the Night, as Mayor Pétion walks here in the
      Tuileries Garden, “is beautiful and calm;” Orion and the Pleiades
      glitter down quite serene. Pétion has come forth, the “heat”
      inside was so oppressive.[499] Indeed, his Majesty’s reception of
      him was of the roughest; as it well might be. And now there is no
      outgate; Mandat’s blue Squadrons turn you back at every Grate;
      nay the Filles-Saint-Thomas Grenadiers give themselves liberties
      of tongue, How a virtuous Mayor “shall pay for it, if there be
      mischief,” and the like; though others again are full of
      civility. Surely if any man in France is in straights this night,
      it is Mayor Pétion: bound, under pain of death, one may say, to
      smile dexterously with the one side of his face, and weep with
      the other;—death if he do it not dexterously enough! Not till
      four in the morning does a National Assembly, hearing of his
      plight, summon him over “to give account of Paris;” of which he
      knows nothing: whereby however he shall get home to bed, and only
      his gilt coach be left. Scarcely less delicate is Syndic
      Rœderer’s task; who must wait whether he will lament or not, till
      he see the issue. Janus Bifrons, or _Mr. Facing-both-ways_, as
      vernacular Bunyan has it! They walk there, in the meanwhile,
      these two Januses, with others of the like double conformation;
      and “talk of indifferent matters.”

      Rœderer, from time to time, steps in; to listen, to speak; to
      send for the Department-Directory itself, he their Procureur
      Syndic not seeing how to act. The Apartments are all crowded;
      some seven hundred gentlemen in black elbowing, bustling; red
      Swiss standing like rocks; ghost, or partial-ghost of a Ministry,
      with Rœderer and advisers, hovering round their Majesties; old
      Marshall Maillé kneeling at the King’s feet, to say, He and these
      gallant gentlemen are come to die for him. List! through the
      placid midnight; clang of the distant stormbell! So, in very
      sooth; steeple after steeple takes up the wondrous tale. Black
      Courtiers listen at the windows, opened for air; discriminate the
      steeple-bells:[500] this is the tocsin of Saint-Roch; that again,
      is it not Saint-Jacques, named _de la Boucherie?_ Yes, Messieurs!
      Or even Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, hear ye _it_ not? The same
      metal that rang storm, two hundred and twenty years ago; but by a
      Majesty’s order then; on Saint-Bartholomew’s Eve[501]—So go the
      steeple-bells; which Courtiers can discriminate. Nay, meseems,
      there is the Townhall itself; we know it by its sound! Yes,
      Friends, that is the Townhall; discoursing _so_, to the Night.
      Miraculously; by miraculous metal-tongue and man’s arm: Marat
      himself, if you knew it, is pulling at the rope there! Marat is
      pulling; Robespierre lies deep, invisible for the next forty
      hours; and some men have heart, and some have as good as none,
      and not even frenzy will give them any.

      What struggling confusion, as the issue slowly draws on; and the
      doubtful Hour, with pain and blind struggle, brings forth its
      Certainty, never to be abolished!—The Full-power Delegates, three
      from each Section, a Hundred and forty-four in all, got gathered
      at the Townhall, about midnight. Mandat’s Squadron, stationed
      there, did not hinder their entering: are they not the “Central
      Committee of the Sections” who sit here usually; though in
      greater number tonight? They are there: presided by Confusion,
      Irresolution, and the Clack of Tongues. Swift scouts fly; Rumour
      buzzes, of black Courtiers, red Swiss, of Mandat and his
      Squadrons that shall charge. Better put off the Insurrection?
      Yes, put it off. Ha, hark! Saint-Antoine booming out eloquent
      tocsin, of its own accord!—Friends, no: ye cannot put off the
      Insurrection; but must put it on, and live with it, or die with
      it.

      Swift now, therefore: let these actual Old Municipals, on sight
      of the Full-powers, and mandate of the Sovereign elective People,
      lay down their functions; and this New Hundred and forty-four
      take them up! Will ye nill ye, worthy Old Municipals, go ye must.
      Nay is it not a happiness for many a Municipal that he can wash
      his hands of such a business; and sit there paralyzed,
      unaccountable, till the Hour do bring forth; or even go home to
      his night’s rest?[502] Two only of the Old, or at most three, we
      retain Mayor Pétion, for the present walking in the Tuileries;
      Procureur Manuel; Procureur Substitute Danton, invisible Atlas of
      the whole. And so, with our Hundred and forty-four, among whom
      are a Tocsin-Huguenin, a Billaud, a Chaumette; and
      Editor-Talliens, and Fabre d’Eglantines, Sergents, Panises; and
      in brief, either emergent, or else emerged and full-blown, the
      entire Flower of unlimited Patriotism: have we not, as by magic,
      made a New Municipality; ready to act in the unlimited manner;
      and declare itself roundly, “in a State of Insurrection!”—First
      of all, then, be Commandant Mandat sent for, with that
      Mayor’s-Order of his; also let the New Municipals visit those
      Squadrons that were to charge; and let the stormbell ring its
      loudest;—and, on the whole, Forward, ye Hundred and forty-four;
      retreat is now none for you!

      Reader, fancy not, in thy languid way, that Insurrection is easy.
      Insurrection is difficult: each individual uncertain even of his
      next neighbour; totally uncertain of his distant neighbours, what
      strength is with him, what strength is against him; certain only
      that, in case of failure, his individual portion is the gallows!
      Eight hundred thousand heads, and in each of them a separate
      estimate of these uncertainties, a separate theorem of action
      conformable to that: out of so many uncertainties, does the
      certainty, and inevitable net-result never to be abolished, go
      on, at all moments, bodying itself forth;—leading thee also
      towards civic-crowns or an ignominious noose.

      Could the Reader take an Asmodeus’s Flight, and waving open all
      roofs and privacies, look down from the Tower of Notre Dame, what
      a Paris were it! Of treble-voice whimperings or vehemence, of
      bass-voice growlings, dubitations; Courage screwing itself to
      desperate defiance; Cowardice trembling silent within barred
      doors;—and all round, Dulness calmly snoring; for much Dulness,
      flung on its mattresses, always sleeps. O, between the clangour
      of these high-storming tocsins and that snore of Dulness, what a
      gamut: of trepidation, excitation, desperation; and above it mere
      Doubt, Danger, Atropos and Nox!

      Fighters of this section draw out; hear that the next Section
      does not; and thereupon draw in. Saint-Antoine, on this side the
      River, is uncertain of Saint-Marceau on that. Steady only is the
      snore of Dulness, are the Six Hundred Marseillese that know how
      to die! Mandat, twice summoned to the Townhall, has not come.
      Scouts fly incessant, in distracted haste; and the
      many-whispering voices of Rumour. Théroigne and unofficial
      Patriots flit, dim-visible, exploratory, far and wide; like
      Night-birds on the wing. Of Nationals some Three thousand have
      followed Mandat and his _générale;_ the rest follow each his own
      theorem of the uncertainties: theorem, that one should march
      rather with Saint-Antoine; innumerable theorems, that in such a
      case the wholesomest were _sleep_. And so the drums beat, in made
      fits, and the stormbells peal. Saint-Antoine itself does but draw
      out and draw in; Commandant Santerre, over there, cannot believe
      that the Marseillese and Saint Marceau will march. Thou laggard
      sonorous Beer-vat, with the loud voice and timber head, is it
      time now to palter? Alsatian Westermann clutches him by the
      throat with drawn sabre: whereupon the Timber-headed believes. In
      this manner wanes the slow night; amid fret, uncertainty and
      tocsin; all men’s humour rising to the hysterical pitch; and
      nothing done.

      However, Mandat, on the third summons does come;—come, unguarded;
      astonished to find the Municipality _new_. They question him
      straitly on that Mayor’s-Order to resist force by force; on that
      strategic scheme of cutting Saint-Antoine in two halves: he
      answers what he can: they think it were right to send this
      strategic National Commandant to the Abbaye Prison, and let a
      Court of Law decide on him. Alas, a Court of Law, not Book-Law
      but primeval Club-Law, crowds and jostles out of doors; all
      fretted to the hysterical pitch; cruel as Fear, blind as the
      Night: such Court of Law, and no other, clutches poor Mandat from
      his constables; beats him down, massacres him, on the steps of
      the Townhall. Look to it, ye new Municipals; ye People, in a
      state of Insurrection! Blood is shed, blood must be answered
      for;—alas, in such hysterical humour, more blood will flow: for
      it is as with the Tiger in that; he has only to begin.

      Seventeen Individuals have been seized in the Champs Elysées, by
      exploratory Patriotism; they flitting dim-visible, by it flitting
      dim-visible. Ye have pistols, rapiers, ye Seventeen? One of those
      accursed “false Patrols;” that go marauding, with Anti-National
      intent; seeking what they can spy, what they can spill! The
      Seventeen are carried to the nearest Guard-house; eleven of them
      escape by back passages. ‘How is this?’ Demoiselle Théroigne
      appears at the front entrance, with sabre, pistols, and a train;
      denounces treasonous connivance; demands, seizes, the remaining
      six, that the justice of the People be not trifled with. Of which
      six two more escape in the whirl and debate of the Club-Law
      Court; the last unhappy Four are massacred, as Mandat was: Two
      Ex-Bodyguards; one dissipated Abbé; one Royalist Pamphleteer,
      Sulleau, known to us by name, Able Editor, and wit of all work.
      Poor Sulleau: his _Acts of the Apostles_, and brisk
      Placard-Journals (for he was an able man) come to _Finis_, in
      this manner; and questionable jesting issues suddenly in horrid
      earnest! Such doings usher in the dawn of the Tenth of August,
      1792.

      Or think what a night the poor National Assembly has had: sitting
      there, “in great paucity,” attempting to debate;—quivering and
      shivering; pointing towards all the thirty-two azimuths at once,
      as the magnet-needle does when thunderstorm is in the air! If the
      Insurrection come? If it come, and fail? Alas, in that case, may
      not black Courtiers, with blunderbusses, red Swiss with bayonets
      rush over, flushed with victory, and ask us: Thou undefinable,
      waterlogged, self-distractive, self-destructive Legislative, what
      dost thou here _unsunk?_—Or figure the poor National Guards,
      bivouacking “in temporary tents” there; or standing ranked,
      shifting from leg to leg, all through the weary night; New
      tricolor Municipals ordering one thing, old Mandat Captains
      ordering another! Procureur Manuel has ordered the cannons to be
      withdrawn from the Pont Neuf; none ventured to disobey him. It
      seemed certain, then, the old Staff so long doomed has finally
      been dissolved, in these hours; and Mandat is not our Commandant
      now, but Santerre? Yes, friends: Santerre henceforth,—surely
      Mandat no more! The Squadrons that were to charge see nothing
      certain, except that they are cold, hungry, worn down with
      watching; that it were sad to slay French brothers; sadder to be
      slain by them. Without the Tuileries Circuit, and within it, sour
      uncertain humour sways these men: only the red Swiss stand
      steadfast. Them their officers refresh now with a slight wetting
      of brandy; wherein the Nationals, too far gone for brandy, refuse
      to participate.

      King Louis meanwhile had laid him down for a little sleep: his
      wig when he reappeared had lost the powder on one side.[503] Old
      Marshal Maillé and the gentlemen in black rise always in spirits,
      as the Insurrection does not rise: there goes a witty saying now,
      ‘_Le tocsin ne rend pas_.’ The tocsin, like a dry milk-cow, does
      not yield. For the rest, could one not proclaim Martial Law? Not
      easily; for now, it seems, Mayor Pétion is gone. On the other
      hand, our Interim Commandant, poor Mandat being off, “to the
      Hôtel-de-Ville,” complains that so many Courtiers in black
      encumber the service, are an eyesorrow to the National Guards. To
      which her Majesty answers with emphasis, That they will obey all,
      will suffer all, that they are sure men these.

      And so the yellow lamplight dies out in the gray of morning, in
      the King’s Palace, over such a scene. Scene of jostling,
      elbowing, of confusion, and indeed conclusion, for the thing is
      about to end. Rœderer and spectral Ministers jostle in the press;
      consult, in side cabinets, with one or with both Majesties.
      Sister Elizabeth takes the Queen to the window: ‘Sister, see what
      a beautiful sunrise,’ right over the Jacobins church and that
      quarter! How happy if the tocsin did not yield! But Mandat
      returns not; Pétion is gone: much hangs wavering in the invisible
      Balance. About five o’clock, there rises from the Garden a kind
      of sound; as of a shout to which had become a howl, and instead
      of _Vive le Roi_ were ending in _Vive la Nation_. ‘_Mon Dieu!_’
      ejaculates a spectral Minister, ‘what is he doing down there?’
      For it is his Majesty, gone down with old Marshal Maillé to
      review the troops; and the nearest companies of them answer _so_.
      Her Majesty bursts into a stream of tears. Yet on stepping from
      the cabinet her eyes are dry and calm, her look is even cheerful.
      “The Austrian lip, and the aquiline nose, fuller than usual, gave
      to her countenance,” says Peltier,[504] “something of Majesty,
      which they that did not see her in these moments cannot well have
      an idea of.” O thou Theresa’s Daughter!

      King Louis enters, much blown with the fatigue; but for the rest
      with his old air of indifference. Of all hopes now surely the
      joyfullest were, that the tocsin did not yield.


      Chapter 2.6.VII.
      The Swiss.

      Unhappy Friends, the tocsin does yield, has yielded! Lo ye, how
      with the first sun-rays its Ocean-tide, of pikes and fusils,
      flows glittering from the far East;—immeasurable; born of the
      Night! They march there, the grim host; Saint-Antoine on this
      side of the River; Saint-Marceau on that, the blackbrowed
      Marseillese in the van. With hum, and grim murmur, far-heard;
      like the Ocean-tide, as we say: drawn up, as if by Luna and
      Influences, from the great Deep of Waters, they roll gleaming on;
      no King, Canute or Louis, can bid them roll back. Wide-eddying
      side-currents, of onlookers, roll hither and thither, unarmed,
      not voiceless; they, the steel host, roll on. New-Commandant
      Santerre, indeed, has taken seat at the Townhall; rests there, in
      his half-way-house. Alsatian Westermann, with flashing sabre,
      does not rest; nor the Sections, nor the Marseillese, nor
      Demoiselle Théroigne; but roll continually on.

      And now, where are Mandat’s Squadrons that were to charge? Not a
      Squadron of them stirs: or they stir in the wrong direction, out
      of the way; their officers glad that they will even do that. It
      is to this hour uncertain whether the Squadron on the Pont Neuf
      made the shadow of resistance, or did not make the shadow:
      enough, the blackbrowed Marseillese, and Saint-Marceau following
      them, do cross without let; do cross, in sure hope now of
      Saint-Antoine and the rest; do billow on, towards the Tuileries,
      where their errand is. The Tuileries, at sound of them, rustles
      responsive: the red Swiss look to their priming; Courtiers in
      black draw their blunderbusses, rapiers, poniards, some have even
      fire-shovels; every man his weapon of war.

      Judge if, in these circumstances, Syndic Rœderer felt easy! Will
      the kind Heavens open no middle-course of refuge for a poor
      Syndic who halts between two? If indeed his Majesty would consent
      to go over to the Assembly! His Majesty, above all her Majesty,
      cannot agree to that. Did her Majesty answer the proposal with a
      ‘_Fi donc;_’ did she say even, she would be nailed to the walls
      sooner? Apparently not. It is written also that she offered the
      King a pistol; saying, Now or else never was the time to shew
      himself. Close eye-witnesses did not see it, nor do we. That saw
      only that she was queenlike, quiet; that she argued not,
      upbraided not, with the Inexorable; but, like Cæsar in the
      Capitol, wrapped her mantle, as it beseems Queens and Sons of
      Adam to do. But thou, O Louis! of what stuff art thou at all? Is
      there no stroke in thee, then, for Life and Crown? The silliest
      hunted deer dies not so. Art thou the languidest of all mortals;
      or the mildest-minded? Thou art the worst-starred.

      The tide advances; Syndic Rœderer’s and all men’s straits grow
      straiter and straiter. Fremescent clangor comes from the armed
      Nationals in the Court; far and wide is the infinite hubbub of
      tongues. What counsel? And the tide is now nigh! Messengers,
      forerunners speak hastily through the outer Grates; hold parley
      sitting astride the walls. Syndic Rœderer goes out and comes in.
      Cannoneers ask him: Are we to fire against the people? King’s
      Ministers ask him: Shall the King’s House be forced? Syndic
      Rœderer has a hard game to play. He speaks to the Cannoneers with
      eloquence, with fervour; such fervour as a man can, who has to
      blow hot and cold in one breath. Hot and cold, O Rœderer? We, for
      our part, cannot live _and_ die! The Cannoneers, by way of
      answer, fling down their linstocks.—Think of this answer, O King
      Louis, and King’s Ministers: and take a poor Syndic’s safe
      middle-course, towards the Salle de Manége. King Louis sits, his
      hands leant on knees, body bent forward; gazes for a space
      fixedly on Syndic Rœderer; then answers, looking over his
      shoulder to the Queen: _Marchons!_ They march; King Louis, Queen,
      Sister Elizabeth, the two royal children and governess: these,
      with Syndic Rœderer, and Officials of the Department; amid a
      double rank of National Guards. The men with blunderbusses, the
      steady red Swiss gaze mournfully, reproachfully; but hear only
      these words from Syndic Rœderer: ‘The King is going to the
      Assembly; make way.’ It has struck eight, on all clocks, some
      minutes ago: the King has left the Tuileries—for ever.

      O ye stanch Swiss, ye gallant gentlemen in black, for what a
      cause are ye to spend and be spent! Look out from the western
      windows, ye may see King Louis placidly hold on his way; the poor
      little Prince Royal “sportfully kicking the fallen leaves.”
      Fremescent multitude on the Terrace of the Feuillants whirls
      parallel to him; one man in it, very noisy, with a long pole:
      will they not obstruct the outer Staircase, and back-entrance of
      the Salle, when it comes to that? King’s Guards can go no further
      than the bottom step there. Lo, Deputation of Legislators come
      out; he of the long pole is stilled by oratory; Assembly’s Guards
      join themselves to King’s Guards, and all may mount in this case
      of necessity; the outer Staircase is free, or passable. See,
      Royalty ascends; a blue Grenadier lifts the poor little Prince
      Royal from the press; Royalty has entered in. Royalty has
      vanished for ever from your eyes.—And ye? Left standing there,
      amid the yawning abysses, and earthquake of Insurrection; without
      course; without command: if ye perish it must be as more than
      martyrs, as martyrs who are now without a cause! The black
      Courtiers disappear mostly; through such issues as they can. The
      poor Swiss know not how to act: one duty only is clear to them,
      that of standing by their post; and they will perform that.

      But the glittering steel tide has arrived; it beats now against
      the Château barriers, and eastern Courts; irresistible,
      loud-surging far and wide;—breaks in, fills the Court of the
      Carrousel, blackbrowed Marseillese in the van. King Louis gone,
      say you; over to the Assembly! Well and good: but till the
      Assembly pronounce Forfeiture of him, what boots it? Our post is
      in that Château or stronghold of his; there till then must we
      continue. Think, ye stanch Swiss, whether it were good that grim
      murder began, and brothers blasted one another in pieces for a
      stone edifice?—Poor Swiss! they know not how to act: from the
      southern windows, some fling cartridges, in sign of brotherhood;
      on the eastern outer staircase, and within through long stairs
      and corridors, they stand firm-ranked, peaceable and yet refusing
      to stir. Westermann speaks to them in Alsatian German;
      Marseillese plead, in hot Provençal speech and pantomime;
      stunning hubbub pleads and threatens, infinite, around. The Swiss
      stand fast, peaceable and yet immovable; red granite pier in that
      waste-flashing sea of steel.

      Who can help the inevitable issue; Marseillese and all France, on
      this side; granite Swiss on that? The pantomime grows hotter and
      hotter; Marseillese sabres flourishing by way of action; the
      Swiss brow also clouding itself, the Swiss thumb bringing its
      firelock to the cock. And hark! high-thundering above all the
      din, three Marseillese cannon from the Carrousel, pointed by a
      gunner of bad aim, come rattling over the roofs! Ye Swiss,
      therefore: _Fire!_ The Swiss fire; by volley, by platoon, in
      rolling-fire: Marseillese men not a few, and “a tall man that was
      louder than any,” lie silent, smashed, upon the pavement;—not a
      few Marseillese, after the long dusty march, have made halt
      _here_. The Carrousel is void; the black tide recoiling;
      “fugitives rushing as far as Saint-Antoine before they stop.” The
      Cannoneers without linstock have squatted invisible, and left
      their cannon; which the Swiss seize.

      Think what a volley: reverberating doomful to the four corners of
      Paris, and through all hearts; like the clang of Bellona’s
      thongs! The blackbrowed Marseillese, rallying on the instant,
      have become black Demons that know how to die. Nor is Brest
      behind-hand; nor Alsatian Westermann; Demoiselle Théroigne is
      Sybil Théroigne: Vengeance _Victoire, ou la mort!_ From all
      Patriot artillery, great and small; from Feuillants Terrace, and
      all terraces and places of the widespread Insurrectionary sea,
      there roars responsive a red whirlwind. Blue Nationals, ranked in
      the Garden, cannot help their muskets going off, _against_
      Foreign murderers. For there is a sympathy in muskets, in heaped
      masses of men: nay, are not Mankind, in whole, like tuned
      strings, and a cunning infinite concordance and unity; you smite
      one string, and all strings will begin sounding,—in soft
      sphere-melody, in deafening screech of madness! Mounted
      Gendarmerie gallop distracted; are fired on merely as a thing
      running; galloping over the Pont Royal, or one knows not whither.
      The brain of Paris, brain-fevered in the centre of it here, has
      gone mad; what you call, taken fire.

      Behold, the fire slackens not; nor does the Swiss rolling-fire
      slacken from within. Nay they clutched cannon, as we saw: and
      now, from the other side, they clutch three pieces more; alas,
      cannon without linstock; nor will the steel-and-flint answer,
      though they try it.[505] Had it chanced to answer! Patriot
      onlookers have their misgivings; one strangest Patriot onlooker
      thinks that the Swiss, had they a commander, would beat. He is a
      man not unqualified to judge; the name of him is Napoleon
      Buonaparte.[506] And onlookers, and women, stand gazing, and the
      witty Dr. Moore of Glasgow among them, on the other side of the
      River: cannon rush rumbling past them; pause on the Pont Royal;
      belch out their iron entrails there, against the Tuileries; and
      at every new belch, the women and onlookers shout and clap
      hands.[507] City of all the Devils! In remote streets, men are
      drinking breakfast-coffee; following their affairs; with a start
      now and then, as some dull echo reverberates a note louder. And
      here? Marseillese fall wounded; but Barbaroux has surgeons;
      Barbaroux is close by, managing, though underhand, and under
      cover. Marseillese fall death-struck; bequeath their firelock,
      specify in which pocket are the cartridges; and die, murmuring,
      ‘Revenge me, Revenge thy country!’ Brest Fédéré Officers,
      galloping in red coats, are shot as Swiss. Lo you, the Carrousel
      has burst into flame!—Paris Pandemonium! Nay the poor City, as we
      said, is in fever-fit and convulsion; such crisis has lasted for
      the space of some half hour.

      But what is this that, with Legislative Insignia, ventures
      through the hubbub and death-hail, from the back-entrance of the
      Manege? Towards the Tuileries and Swiss: written Order from his
      Majesty to cease firing! O ye hapless Swiss, why was there no
      order not to begin it? Gladly would the Swiss cease firing: but
      who will bid mad Insurrection cease firing? To Insurrection you
      cannot speak; neither can it, hydra-headed, hear. The dead and
      dying, by the hundred, lie all around; are borne bleeding through
      the streets, towards help; the sight of them, like a torch of the
      Furies, kindling Madness. Patriot Paris roars; as the bear
      bereaved of her whelps. On, ye Patriots: vengeance! victory or
      death! There are men seen, who rush on, armed only with
      walking-sticks.[508] Terror and Fury rule the hour.

      The Swiss, pressed on from without, paralyzed from within, have
      ceased to shoot; but not to be shot. What shall they do?
      Desperate is the moment. Shelter or instant death: yet How?
      Where? One party flies out by the Rue de l’Echelle; is destroyed
      utterly, “_en entier_.” A second, by the other side, throws
      itself into the Garden; “hurrying across a keen fusillade:”
      rushes suppliant into the National Assembly; finds pity and
      refuge in the back benches there. The third, and largest, darts
      out in column, three hundred strong, towards the Champs Elysées:
      Ah, could we but reach Courbevoye, where other Swiss are! Wo!
      see, in such fusillade the column “soon breaks itself by
      diversity of opinion,” into distracted segments, this way and
      that;—to escape in holes, to die fighting from street to street.
      The firing and murdering will not cease; not yet for long. The
      red Porters of Hotels are shot at, be they _Suisse_ by nature, or
      _Suisse_ only in name. The very Firemen, who pump and labour on
      that smoking Carrousel, are shot at; why should the Carrousel
      _not_ burn? Some Swiss take refuge in private houses; find that
      mercy too does still dwell in the heart of man. The brave
      Marseillese are merciful, late so wroth; and labour to save.
      Journalist Gorsas pleads hard with enfuriated groups. Clemence,
      the Wine-merchant, stumbles forward to the Bar of the Assembly, a
      rescued Swiss in his hand; tells passionately how he rescued him
      with pain and peril, how he will henceforth support him, being
      childless himself; and falls a swoon round the poor Swiss’s neck:
      amid plaudits. But the most are butchered, and even mangled.
      Fifty (some say Fourscore) were marched as prisoners, by National
      Guards, to the Hôtel-de-Ville: the ferocious people bursts
      through on them, in the Place de Grève; massacres them to the
      last man. “_O Peuple_, envy of the universe!” _Peuple_, in mad
      Gaelic effervescence!

      Surely few things in the history of carnage are painfuller. What
      ineffaceable red streak, flickering so sad in the memory, is
      that, of this poor column of red Swiss “breaking itself in the
      confusion of opinions;” dispersing, into blackness and death!
      Honour to you, brave men; honourable pity, through long times!
      Not martyrs were ye; and yet almost more. He was no King of
      yours, this Louis; and he forsook you like a King of shreds and
      patches; ye were but sold to him for some poor sixpence a-day;
      yet would ye work for your wages, keep your plighted word. The
      work now was to die; and ye did it. Honour to you, O Kinsmen; and
      may the old Deutsch _Biederkeit_ and _Tapferkeit_, and Valour
      which is _Worth_ and _Truth_ be they Swiss, be they Saxon, fail
      in no age! Not bastards; true-born were these men; sons of the
      men of Sempach, of Murten, who knelt, but not to thee, O
      Burgundy!—Let the traveller, as he passes through Lucerne, turn
      aside to look a little at their monumental Lion; not for
      Thorwaldsen’s sake alone. Hewn out of living rock, the Figure
      rests there, by the still Lake-waters, in lullaby of
      distant-tinkling _rance-des-vaches_, the granite Mountains dumbly
      keeping watch all round; and, though inanimate, speaks.


      Chapter 2.6.VIII.
      Constitution burst in Pieces.

      Thus is the Tenth of August won and lost. Patriotism reckons its
      slain by thousand on thousand, so deadly was the Swiss fire from
      these windows; but will finally reduce them to some Twelve
      hundred. No child’s play was it;—nor is it! Till two in the
      afternoon the massacring, the breaking and the burning has not
      ended; nor the loose Bedlam shut itself again.

      How deluges of frantic Sansculottism roared through all passages
      of this Tuileries, ruthless in vengeance, how the Valets were
      butchered, hewn down; and Dame Campan saw the Marseilles sabre
      flash over her head, but the Blackbrowed said, ‘_Va-t-en_, Get
      thee gone,’ and flung her from him unstruck:[509] how in the
      cellars wine-bottles were broken, wine-butts were staved in and
      drunk; and, upwards to the very garrets, all windows tumbled out
      their precious royal furnitures; and, with gold mirrors, velvet
      curtains, down of ript feather-beds, and dead bodies of men, the
      Tuileries was like no Garden of the Earth:—all this let him who
      has a taste for it see amply in Mercier, in acrid Montgaillard,
      or Beaulieu of the _Deux Amis_. A hundred and eighty bodies of
      Swiss lie piled there; naked, unremoved till the second day.
      Patriotism has torn their red coats into snips; and marches with
      them at the Pike’s point: the ghastly bare corpses lie there,
      under the sun and under the stars; the curious of both sexes
      crowding to look. Which let not us do. Above a hundred carts
      heaped with Dead fare towards the Cemetery of Sainte-Madeleine;
      bewailed, bewept; for all had kindred, all had mothers, if not
      here, then there. It is one of those Carnage-fields, such as you
      read of by the name “Glorious Victory,” brought home in this case
      to one’s own door.

      But the blackbrowed Marseillese have struck down the Tyrant of
      the Château. He is struck down; low, and hardly to rise. What a
      moment for an august Legislative was that when the Hereditary
      Representative entered, under such circumstances; and the
      Grenadier, carrying the little Prince Royal out of the Press, set
      him down on the Assembly-table! A moment,—which one had to smooth
      off with oratory; waiting what the next would bring! Louis said
      few words: ‘He was come hither to prevent a great crime; he
      believed himself safer nowhere than here.’ President Vergniaud
      answered briefly, in vague oratory as we say, about ‘defence of
      Constituted Authorities,’ about dying at our post.[510] And so
      King Louis sat him down; first here, then there; for a difficulty
      arose, the Constitution not permitting us to debate while the
      King is present: finally he settles himself with his Family in
      the “_Loge_ of the _Logographe_” in the Reporter’s-Box of a
      Journalist: which is beyond the enchanted Constitutional Circuit,
      separated from it by a rail. To such Lodge of the _Logographe_,
      measuring some ten feet square, with a small closet at the
      entrance of it behind, is the King of broad France now limited:
      here can he and his sit pent, under the eyes of the world, or
      retire into their closet at intervals; for the space of sixteen
      hours. Such quiet peculiar moment has the Legislative lived to
      see.

      But also what a moment was that other, few minutes later, when
      the three Marseillese cannon went off, and the Swiss rolling-fire
      and universal thunder, like the Crack of Doom, began to rattle!
      Honourable Members start to their feet; stray bullets singing
      epicedium even here, shivering in with window-glass and jingle.
      ‘No, this is our post; let us die here!’ They sit therefore, like
      stone Legislators. But may not the Lodge of the _Logographe_ be
      forced from behind? Tear down the railing that divides it from
      the enchanted Constitutional Circuit! Ushers tear and tug; his
      Majesty himself aiding from within: the railing gives way;
      Majesty and Legislative are united in place, unknown Destiny
      hovering over both.

      Rattle, and again rattle, went the thunder; one breathless
      wide-eyed messenger rushing in after another: King’s orders to
      the Swiss went out. It was a fearful thunder; but, as we know, it
      ended. Breathless messengers, fugitive Swiss, denunciatory
      Patriots, trepidation; finally tripudiation!—Before four o’clock
      much has come and gone.

      The New Municipals have come and gone; with Three Flags,
      _Liberté, Egalité, Patrie_, and the clang of vivats. Vergniaud,
      he who as President few hours ago talked of Dying for Constituted
      Authorities, has moved, as Committee-Reporter, that the
      Hereditary Representative _be suspended;_ that a NATIONAL
      CONVENTION do forthwith assemble to say what further! An able
      Report: which the President must have had ready in his pocket? A
      President, in such cases, must have much ready, and yet not
      ready; and Janus-like look before and after.

      King Louis listens to all; retires about midnight “to three
      little rooms on the upper floor;” till the Luxembourg be prepared
      for him, and “the safeguard of the Nation.” Safer if Brunswick
      were once here! Or, alas, not so safe? Ye hapless discrowned
      heads! Crowds came, next morning, to catch a climpse of them, in
      their three upper rooms. Montgaillard says the august Captives
      wore an air of cheerfulness, even of gaiety; that the Queen and
      Princess Lamballe, who had joined her over night, looked out of
      the open window, “shook powder from their hair on the people
      below, and laughed.”[511] He is an acrid distorted man.

      For the rest, one may guess that the Legislative, above all that
      the New Municipality continues busy. Messengers, Municipal or
      Legislative, and swift despatches rush off to all corners of
      France; full of triumph, blended with indignant wail, for Twelve
      hundred have fallen. France sends up its blended shout
      responsive; the Tenth of August shall be as the Fourteenth of
      July, only bloodier and greater. The Court has conspired? Poor
      Court: the Court has been vanquished; and will have both the
      scath to bear and the scorn. How the Statues of Kings do now all
      fall! Bronze Henri himself, though he wore a cockade once,
      jingles down from the Pont Neuf, where _Patrie_ floats _in
      Danger_. Much more does Louis Fourteenth, from the Place Vendôme,
      jingle down, and even breaks in falling. The curious can remark,
      written on his horse’s shoe: “12 _Août_ 1692;” a Century and a
      Day.

      The Tenth of August was Friday. The week is not done, when our
      old Patriot Ministry is recalled, what of it can be got: strict
      Roland, Genevese Clavière; add heavy Monge the Mathematician,
      once a stone-hewer; and, for Minister of Justice,—Danton “led
      hither,” as himself says, in one of his gigantic figures,
      “through the breach of Patriot cannon!” These, under Legislative
      Committees, must rule the wreck as they can: confusedly enough;
      with an old Legislative waterlogged, with a New Municipality so
      brisk. But National Convention will get itself together; and
      _then!_ Without delay, however, let a New Jury-Court and Criminal
      Tribunal be set up in Paris, to try the crimes and conspiracies
      of the Tenth. High Court of Orléans is distant, slow: the blood
      of the Twelve hundred Patriots, whatever become of other blood,
      shall be inquired after. Tremble, ye Criminals and Conspirators;
      the Minister of Justice is Danton! Robespierre too, after the
      victory, sits in the New Municipality; insurrectionary
      “improvised Municipality,” which calls itself Council General of
      the Commune.

      For three days now, Louis and his Family have heard the
      Legislative Debates in the Lodge of the _Logographe;_ and retired
      nightly to their small upper rooms. The Luxembourg and safeguard
      of the Nation could not be got ready: nay, it seems the
      Luxembourg has too many cellars and issues; no Municipality can
      undertake to watch it. The compact Prison of the Temple, not so
      elegant indeed, were much safer. To the Temple, therefore! On
      Monday, 13th day of August 1792, in Mayor Pétion’s carriage,
      Louis and his sad suspended Household, fare thither; all Paris
      out to look at them. As they pass through the Place Vendôme Louis
      Fourteenth’s Statue lies broken on the ground. Pétion is afraid
      the Queen’s looks may be thought scornful, and produce
      provocation; she casts down her eyes, and does not look at all.
      The “press is prodigious,” but quiet: here and there, it shouts
      _Vive la Nation;_ but for most part gazes in silence. French
      Royalty vanishes within the gates of the Temple: these old peaked
      Towers, like peaked Extinguisher or _Bonsoir_, do cover it
      up;—from which same Towers, poor Jacques Molay and his Templars
      were burnt out, by French Royalty, five centuries since. Such are
      the turns of Fate below. Foreign Ambassadors, English Lord Gower
      have all demanded passports; are driving indignantly towards
      their respective homes.

      So, then, the Constitution is over? For ever and a day! Gone is
      that wonder of the Universe; First biennial Parliament,
      waterlogged, waits only till the Convention come; and will then
      sink to endless depths.

      One can guess the silent rage of Old-Constituents,
      Constitution-builders, extinct Feuillants, men who thought the
      Constitution would march! Lafayette rises to the altitude of the
      situation; at the head of his Army. Legislative Commissioners are
      posting towards him and it, on the Northern Frontier, to
      congratulate and perorate: he orders the Municipality of Sedan to
      arrest these Commissioners, and keep them strictly in ward as
      Rebels, till he say further. The Sedan Municipals obey.

      The Sedan Municipals obey: but the Soldiers of the Lafayette
      Army? The Soldiers of the Lafayette Army have, as all Soldiers
      have, a kind of dim feeling that they themselves are Sansculottes
      in buff belts; that the victory of the Tenth of August is also a
      victory for them. They will not rise and follow Lafayette to
      Paris; they will rise and _send_ him thither! On the 18th, which
      is but next Saturday, Lafayette, with some two or three indignant
      Staff-officers, one of whom is Old-Constituent Alexandre de
      Lameth, having first put his Lines in what order he could,—rides
      swiftly over the Marches, towards Holland. Rides, alas, swiftly
      into the claws of Austrians! He, long-wavering, trembling on the
      verge of the horizon, has set, in Olmutz Dungeons; this History
      knows him no more. Adieu, thou Hero of two worlds; thinnest, but
      compact honour-worthy man! Through long rough night of captivity,
      through other tumults, triumphs and changes, thou wilt swing
      well, “fast-anchored to the Washington Formula;” and be the Hero
      and Perfect-character, were it only of one idea. The Sedan
      Municipals repent and protest; the Soldiers shout _Vive la
      Nation_. Dumouriez Polymetis, from his Camp at Maulde, sees
      himself made Commander in Chief.

      And, O Brunswick! what sort of “military execution” will Paris
      merit now? Forward, ye well-drilled exterminatory men; with your
      artillery-waggons, and camp kettles jingling. Forward, tall
      chivalrous King of Prussia; fanfaronading Emigrants and war-god
      Broglie, “for some consolation to mankind,” which verily is not
      without need of some.

 END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.


      VOLUME III.
      THE GUILLOTINE

Alle Freiheits-Apostel, sie waren mir immer zuwider;
    Willkür suchte doch nur Jeder am Ende für sich.
Willst du Viele befrein, so wag’ es Vielen zu dienen.
    Wie gefährlich das sey, willst du es wissen? Versuch’s!

 GOETHE.


      BOOK 3.I.
      SEPTEMBER


      Chapter 3.1.I.
      The Improvised Commune.

      Ye have roused her, then, ye Emigrants and Despots of the world;
      France is roused; long have ye been lecturing and tutoring this
      poor Nation, like cruel uncalled-for pedagogues, shaking over her
      your ferulas of fire and steel: it is long that ye have pricked
      and fillipped and affrighted her, there as she sat helpless in
      her dead cerements of a Constitution, you gathering in on her
      from all lands, with your armaments and plots, your invadings and
      truculent bullyings;—and lo now, ye have pricked her to the
      quick, and she is up, and her blood is up. The dead cerements are
      rent into cobwebs, and she fronts you in that terrible strength
      of Nature, which no man has measured, which goes down to Madness
      and Tophet: see now how ye will deal with her!

      This month of September, 1792, which has become one of the
      memorable months of History, presents itself under two most
      diverse aspects; all of black on the one side, all of bright on
      the other. Whatsoever is cruel in the panic frenzy of Twenty-five
      million men, whatsoever is great in the simultaneous
      death-defiance of Twenty-five million men, stand here in abrupt
      contrast, near by one another. As indeed is usual when a man, how
      much more when a Nation of men, is hurled suddenly beyond the
      limits. For Nature, as green as she looks, rests everywhere on
      dread foundations, were we farther down; and Pan, to whose music
      the Nymphs dance, has a cry in him that can drive all men
      distracted.

      Very frightful it is when a Nation, rending asunder its
      Constitutions and Regulations which were grown dead cerements for
      it, becomes _trans_cendental; and must now seek its wild way
      through the New, Chaotic,—where Force is not yet distinguished
      into Bidden and Forbidden, but Crime and Virtue welter
      unseparated,—in that domain of what is called the Passions; of
      what we call the Miracles and the Portents! It is thus that, for
      some three years to come, we are to contemplate France, in this
      final Third Volume of our History. Sansculottism reigning in all
      its grandeur and in all its hideousness: the Gospel (God’s
      Message) of Man’s Rights, Man’s _mights_ or strengths, once more
      preached irrefragably abroad; along with this, and still louder
      for the time, and fearfullest Devil’s-Message of Man’s weaknesses
      and sins;—and all on such a scale, and under such aspect: cloudy
      “death-birth of a world;” huge smoke-cloud, streaked with rays as
      of heaven on one side; girt on the other as with hell-fire!
      History tells us many things: but for the last thousand years and
      more, what thing has she told us of a sort like this? Which
      therefore let us two, O Reader, dwell on willingly, for a little;
      and from its endless significance endeavour to extract what may,
      in present circumstances, be adapted for us.

      It is unfortunate, though very natural, that the history of this
      Period has so generally been written in hysterics. Exaggeration
      abounds, execration, wailing; and, on the whole, darkness. But
      thus too, when foul old Rome had to be swept from the Earth, and
      those Northmen, and other horrid sons of Nature, came in,
      “swallowing formulas” as the French now do, foul old Rome
      screamed execratively her loudest; so that, the true shape of
      many things is lost for us. Attila’s Huns had arms of such length
      that they could lift a stone without stooping. Into the body of
      the poor Tatars execrative Roman History intercalated an
      alphabetic letter; and so they continue Ta-r-tars, of fell
      Tartarean nature, to this day. Here, in like manner, search as we
      will in these multi-form innumerable French Records, darkness too
      frequently covers, or sheer distraction bewilders. One finds it
      difficult to imagine that the Sun shone in this September month,
      as he does in others. Nevertheless it is an indisputable fact
      that the Sun did shine; and there was weather and work,—nay, as
      to that, very bad weather for harvest work! An unlucky Editor may
      do his utmost; and after all, require allowances.

      He had been a wise Frenchman, who, looking, close at hand, on
      this waste aspect of a France all stirring and whirling, in ways
      new, untried, had been able to discern where the cardinal
      movement lay; which tendency it was that had the rule and primary
      direction of it then! But at forty-four years’ distance, it is
      different. To all men now, two cardinal movements or grand
      tendencies, in the September whirl, have become discernible
      enough: that stormful effluence towards the Frontiers; that
      frantic crowding towards Townhouses and Council-halls in the
      interior. Wild France dashes, in desperate death-defiance,
      towards the Frontiers, to defend itself from foreign Despots;
      crowds towards Townhalls and Election Committee-rooms, to defend
      itself from domestic Aristocrats. Let the Reader conceive well
      these two cardinal movements; and what side-currents and endless
      vortexes might depend on these. He shall judge too, whether, in
      such sudden wreckage of all old Authorities, such a pair of
      cardinal movements, half-frantic in themselves, could be of soft
      nature? As in dry Sahara, when the winds waken, and lift and
      winnow the immensity of sand! The air itself (Travellers say) is
      a dim sand-air; and dim looming through it, the wonderfullest
      uncertain colonnades of Sand-Pillars rush whirling from this side
      and from that, like so many mad Spinning-Dervishes, of a hundred
      feet in stature; and dance their huge Desert-waltz there!—

      Nevertheless in all human movements, were they but a day old,
      there is order, or the beginning of order. Consider two things in
      this Sahara-waltz of the French Twenty-five millions; or rather
      one thing, and one hope of a thing: the _Commune_ (Municipality)
      of Paris, which is already here; the National Convention, which
      shall in few weeks be here. The Insurrectionary Commune, which
      improvising itself on the eve of the Tenth of August, worked this
      ever-memorable Deliverance by explosion, must needs rule over
      it,—till the Convention meet. This Commune, which they may well
      call a spontaneous or “improvised” Commune, is, for the present,
      sovereign of France. The Legislative, deriving its authority from
      the Old, how can _it_ now have authority when the Old is exploded
      by insurrection? As a floating piece of wreck, certain things,
      persons and interests may still cleave to it: volunteer
      defenders, riflemen or pikemen in green uniform, or red nightcap
      (of _bonnet rouge_), defile before it daily, just on the wing
      towards Brunswick; with the brandishing of arms; always with some
      touch of Leonidas-eloquence, often with a fire of daring that
      threatens to outherod Herod,—the Galleries, “especially the
      Ladies, never done with applauding.”[512] Addresses of this or
      the like sort can be received and answered, in the hearing of all
      France: the Salle de Manége is still useful as a place of
      proclamation. For which use, indeed, it now chiefly serves.
      Vergniaud delivers spirit-stirring orations; but always with a
      prophetic sense only, looking towards the coming Convention. ‘Let
      our memory perish,’ cries Vergniaud, ‘but let France be
      free!’—whereupon they all start to their feet, shouting
      responsive: ‘Yes, yes, _périsse notre mémoire, pourvu que la
      France soit libre!_’[513] Disfrocked Chabot abjures Heaven that
      at least we may ‘have done with Kings;’ and fast as powder under
      spark, we all blaze up once more, and with waved hats shout and
      swear: ‘Yes, _nous le jurons; plus de roi!_’[514] All which, as a
      method of proclamation, is very convenient.

      For the rest, that our busy Brissots, rigorous Rolands, men who
      once had authority and now have less and less; men who love law,
      and will have even an Explosion explode itself, as far as
      possible, according to rule, do find this state of matters most
      unofficial unsatisfactory,—is not to be denied. Complaints are
      made; attempts are made: but without effect. The attempts even
      recoil; and must be desisted from, for fear of worse: the sceptre
      is departed from this Legislative once and always. A poor
      Legislative, so hard was fate, had let itself be hand-gyved,
      nailed to the rock like an Andromeda, and could only wail there
      to the Earth and Heavens; miraculously a winged Perseus (or
      Improvised Commune) has dawned out of the void Blue, and cut her
      loose: but whether now is it she, with her softness and musical
      speech, or is it he, with his hardness and sharp falchion and
      aegis, that shall have casting vote? Melodious _agreement_ of
      vote; this were the rule! But if otherwise, and votes diverge,
      then surely Andromeda’s part is to weep,—if possible, tears of
      gratitude alone.

      Be content, O France, with this Improvised Commune, such as it
      is! It has the implements, and has the hands: the time is not
      long. On Sunday the twenty-sixth of August, our Primary
      Assemblies shall meet, begin electing of Electors; on Sunday the
      second of September (may the day prove lucky!) the Electors shall
      begin electing Deputies; and so an all-healing National
      Convention will come together. No _marc d’argent_, or distinction
      of Active and Passive, now insults the French Patriot: but there
      is universal suffrage, unlimited liberty to choose.
      Old-constituents, Present-Legislators, all France is eligible.
      Nay, it may be said, the flower of all the Universe (_de
      l’Univers_) is eligible; for in these very days we, by act of
      Assembly, “naturalise” the chief Foreign Friends of humanity:
      Priestley, burnt out for us in Birmingham; Klopstock, a genius of
      all countries; Jeremy Bentham, useful Jurisconsult; distinguished
      Paine, the rebellious Needleman;—some of whom may be chosen. As
      is most fit; for a Convention of this kind. In a word, Seven
      Hundred and Forty-five unshackled sovereigns, admired of the
      universe, shall replace this hapless impotency of a
      Legislative,—out of which, it is likely, the best members, and
      the Mountain in mass, may be re-elected. Roland is getting ready
      the _Salles des Cent Suisses_, as preliminary rendezvous for
      them; in that void Palace of the Tuileries, now void and
      National, and not a Palace, but a Caravansera.

      As for the Spontaneous Commune, one may say that there never was
      on Earth a stranger Town-Council. Administration, not of a great
      City, but of a great Kingdom in a state of revolt and frenzy,
      this is the task that has fallen to it. Enrolling, provisioning,
      judging; devising, deciding, doing, endeavouring to do: one
      wonders the human brain did not give way under all this, and
      reel. But happily human brains have such a talent of taking up
      simply what they can carry, and ignoring all the rest; leaving
      all the rest, as if it were not there! Whereby somewhat is verily
      shifted for; and much shifts for itself. This Improvised Commune
      walks along, nothing doubting; promptly making front, without
      fear or flurry, at what moment soever, to the wants of the
      moment. Were the world on fire, one improvised tricolor Municipal
      has but one life to lose. They are the elixir and chosen-men of
      Sansculottic Patriotism; promoted to the forlorn-hope;
      unspeakable victory or a high gallows, this is their meed. They
      sit there, in the Townhall, these astonishing tricolor
      Municipals; in Council General; in Committee of Watchfulness (_de
      Surveillance_, which will even become _de Salut Public_, of
      Public Salvation), or what other Committees and Sub-committees
      are needful;—managing infinite Correspondence; passing infinite
      Decrees: one hears of a Decree being “the ninety-eighth of the
      day.” Ready! is the word. They carry loaded pistols in their
      pocket; also some improvised luncheon by way of meal. Or indeed,
      by and by, _traiteurs_ contract for the supply of repasts, to be
      eaten on the spot,—too lavishly, as it was afterwards grumbled.
      Thus they: girt in their tricolor sashes; Municipal note-paper in
      the one hand, fire-arms in other. They have their Agents out all
      over France; speaking in townhouses, market-places, highways and
      byways; agitating, urging to arm; all hearts tingling to hear.
      Great is the fire of Anti-Aristocrat eloquence: nay some, as
      Bibliopolic Momoro, seem to hint afar off at something which
      smells of Agrarian Law, and a surgery of the overswoln dropsical
      strong-box itself;—whereat indeed the bold Bookseller runs risk
      of being hanged, and Ex-Constituent Buzot has to smuggle him
      off.[515]

      Governing Persons, were they never so insignificant
      intrinsically, have for most part plenty of Memoir-writers; and
      the curious, in after-times, can learn minutely their goings out
      and comings in: which, as men always love to know their
      fellow-men in singular situations, is a comfort, of its kind. Not
      so, with these Governing Persons, now in the Townhall! And yet
      what most original fellow-man, of the Governing sort,
      high-chancellor, king, kaiser, secretary of the home or the
      foreign department, ever shewed such a phasis as Clerk Tallien,
      Procureur Manuel, future Procureur Chaumette, here in this
      Sand-waltz of the Twenty-five millions, now do? O brother
      mortals,—thou Advocate Panis, friend of Danton, kinsman of
      Santerre; Engraver Sergent, since called _Agate_ Sergent; thou
      Huguenin, with the tocsin in thy heart! But, as Horace says, they
      wanted the sacred memoir-writer (_sacro vate_); and we know them
      not. Men bragged of August and its doings, publishing them in
      high places; but of this September none now or afterwards would
      brag. The September world remains dark, fuliginous, as Lapland
      witch-midnight;—from which, indeed, very strange shapes will
      evolve themselves.

      Understand this, however: that incorruptible Robespierre is not
      wanting, now when the brunt of battle is past; in a stealthy way
      the seagreen man sits there, his feline eyes excellent in the
      twilight. Also understand this other, a single fact worth many:
      that Marat is not only there, but has a seat of honour assigned
      him, a _tribune particulière_. How changed for Marat; lifted from
      his dark cellar into this luminous “peculiar tribune!” All dogs
      have their day; even rabid dogs. Sorrowful, incurable Philoctetes
      Marat; without whom Troy cannot be taken! Hither, as a main
      element of the Governing Power, has Marat been raised. Royalist
      types, for we have “suppressed” innumerable Durosoys, Royous, and
      even clapt them in prison,—Royalist types replace the worn types
      often snatched from a People’s-Friend in old ill days. In our
      “peculiar tribune” we write and redact: Placards, of due monitory
      terror; _Amis-du-Peuple_ (now under the name of _Journal de la
      République_); and sit obeyed of men. “Marat,” says one, “is the
      conscience of the Hôtel-de-Ville.” _Keeper_, as some call it, of
      the Sovereign’s Conscience;—which surely, in such hands, will not
      lie hid in a napkin!

      Two great movements, as we said, agitate this distracted National
      mind: a rushing against domestic Traitors, a rushing against
      foreign Despots. Mad movements both, restrainable by no known
      rule; strongest passions of human nature driving them on: love,
      hatred; vengeful sorrow, braggart Nationality also vengeful,—and
      pale Panic over all! Twelve Hundred slain Patriots, do they not,
      from their dark catacombs there, in Death’s dumb-shew, plead (O
      ye Legislators) for vengeance? Such was the destructive rage of
      these Aristocrats on the ever-memorable Tenth. Nay, apart from
      vengeance, and with an eye to Public Salvation only, are there
      not still, in this Paris (in round numbers) “thirty thousand
      Aristocrats,” of the most malignant humour; driven now to their
      last trump-card?—Be patient, ye Patriots: our New High Court,
      “Tribunal of the Seventeenth,” sits; each Section has sent Four
      Jurymen; and Danton, extinguishing improper judges, improper
      practices wheresoever found, is “the same man you have known at
      the Cordeliers.” With such a Minister of Justice shall not
      Justice be done?—Let it be swift then, answers universal
      Patriotism; swift and sure!—

      One would hope, this Tribunal of the Seventeenth is swifter than
      most. Already on the 21st, while our Court is but four days old,
      Collenot d’Angremont, “the Royal enlister” (crimp, _embaucheur_)
      dies by torch-light. For, lo, the great _Guillotine_, wondrous to
      behold, now stands there; the Doctor’s _Idea_ has become Oak and
      Iron; the huge cyclopean axe “falls in its grooves like the ram
      of the Pile-engine,” swiftly snuffing out the light of men?”
      “_Mais vous, Gualches_, what have you invented?” _This?_—Poor old
      Laporte, Intendant of the Civil List, follows next; quietly, the
      mild old man. Then Durosoy, Royalist Placarder, “cashier of all
      the Anti-Revolutionists of the interior:” he went rejoicing; said
      that a Royalist like him ought to die, of all days on this day,
      the 25th or Saint Louis’s Day. All these have been tried,
      cast,—the Galleries shouting approval; and handed over to the
      Realised Idea, within a week. Besides those whom we have
      acquitted, the Galleries murmuring, and have dismissed; or even
      have personally guarded back to Prison, as the Galleries took to
      howling, and even to menacing and elbowing.[516] Languid this
      Tribunal is not.

      Nor does the other movement slacken; the rushing against foreign
      Despots. Strong forces shall meet in death-grip; drilled Europe
      against mad undrilled France; and singular conclusions will be
      tried.—Conceive therefore, in some faint degree, the tumult that
      whirls in this France, in this Paris! Placards from Section, from
      Commune, from Legislative, from the individual Patriot, flame
      monitory on all walls. Flags of Danger to Fatherland wave at the
      Hôtel-de-Ville; on the Pont Neuf—over the prostrate Statues of
      Kings. There is universal enlisting, urging to enlist; there is
      tearful-boastful leave-taking; irregular marching on the Great
      North-Eastern Road. Marseillese sing their wild _To Arms_, in
      chorus; which now all men, all women and children have learnt,
      and sing chorally, in Theatres, Boulevards, Streets; and the
      heart burns in every bosom: _Aux Armes! Marchons!_—Or think how
      your Aristocrats are skulking into covert; how Bertrand-Moleville
      lies hidden in some garret “in Aubry-le-boucher Street, with a
      poor surgeon who had known me;” Dame de Staël has secreted her
      Narbonne, not knowing what in the world to make of him. The
      Barriers are sometimes open, oftenest shut; no passports to be
      had; Townhall Emissaries, with the eyes and claws of falcons,
      flitting watchful on all points of your horizon! In two words:
      Tribunal of the Seventeenth, busy under howling Galleries;
      Prussian Brunswick, “over a space of forty miles,” with his
      war-tumbrils, and sleeping thunders, and Briarean “sixty-six
      thousand”[517] right-hands,—coming, coming!

      O Heavens, in these latter days of August, he is come! Durosoy
      was not yet guillotined when news had come that the Prussians
      were harrying and ravaging about Metz; in some four days more,
      one hears that Longwi, our first strong-place on the borders, is
      fallen “in fifteen hours.” Quick, therefore, O ye improvised
      Municipals; quick, and ever quicker!—The improvised Municipals
      make front to this also. Enrolment urges itself; and clothing,
      and arming. Our very officers have now “wool epaulettes;” for it
      is the reign of Equality, and also of Necessity. Neither do men
      now _monsieur_ and _sir_ one another; _citoyen_ (citizen) were
      suitabler; we even say _thou_, as “the free peoples of Antiquity
      did:” so have Journals and the Improvised Commune suggested;
      which shall be well.

      Infinitely better, meantime, could we suggest, where arms are to
      be found. For the present, our _Citoyens_ chant chorally _To
      arms;_ and have no arms! Arms are searched for; passionately;
      there is joy over any musket. Moreover, entrenchments shall be
      made round Paris: on the slopes of Montmartre men dig and shovel;
      though even the simple suspect this to be desperate. They dig;
      Tricolour sashes speak encouragement and _well-speed-ye_. Nay
      finally “twelve Members of the Legislative go daily,” not to
      encourage only, but to bear a hand, and delve: it was decreed
      with acclamation. Arms shall either be provided; or else the
      ingenuity of man crack itself, and become fatuity. Lean
      Beaumarchais, thinking to serve the Fatherland, and do a stroke
      of trade, in the old way, has commissioned sixty thousand stand
      of good arms out of Holland: would to Heaven, for Fatherland’s
      sake and his, they were come! Meanwhile railings are torn up;
      hammered into pikes: chains themselves shall be welded together,
      into pikes. The very coffins of the dead are raised; for melting
      into balls. All Church-bells must down into the furnace to make
      cannon; all Church-plate into the mint to make money. Also behold
      the fair swan-bevies of _Citoyennes_ that have alighted in
      Churches, and sit there with swan-neck,—sewing tents and
      regimentals! Nor are Patriotic Gifts wanting, from those that
      have aught left; nor stingily given: the fair Villaumes, mother
      and daughter, Milliners in the Rue St.-Martin, give “a silver
      thimble, and a coin of fifteen _sous_ (sevenpence halfpenny),”
      with other similar effects; and offer, at least the mother does,
      to mount guard. Men who have not even a thimble, give a
      thimbleful,—were it but of invention. One Citoyen has wrought out
      the scheme of a wooden cannon; which France shall exclusively
      profit by, in the first instance. It is to be made of _staves_,
      by the coopers;—of almost boundless calibre, but uncertain as to
      strength! Thus they: hammering, scheming, stitching, founding,
      with all their heart and with all their soul. Two bells only are
      to remain in each Parish,—for tocsin and other purposes.

      But mark also, precisely while the Prussian batteries were
      playing their briskest at Longwi in the North-East, and our
      dastardly Lavergne saw nothing for it but
      surrender,—south-westward, in remote, patriarchal La Vendée, that
      sour ferment about Nonjuring Priests, after long working, is
      ripe, and explodes: at the wrong moment for us! And so we have
      “eight thousand Peasants at Châtillon-sur-Sèvre,” who will not be
      ballotted for soldiers; will not have their Curates molested. To
      whom Bonchamps, Laroche-jaquelins, and Seigneurs enough, of a
      Royalist turn, will join themselves; with Stofflets and
      Charettes; with Heroes and Chouan Smugglers; and the loyal warmth
      of a simple people, blown into flame and fury by theological and
      seignorial bellows! So that there shall be fighting from behind
      ditches, death-volleys bursting out of thickets and ravines of
      rivers; huts burning, feet of the pitiful women hurrying to
      refuge with their children on their back; seedfields fallow,
      whitened with human bones;—“eighty thousand, of all ages, ranks,
      sexes, flying at once across the Loire,” with wail borne far on
      the winds: and, in brief, for years coming, such a suite of
      scenes as glorious war has not offered in these late ages, not
      since our Albigenses and Crusadings were over,—save indeed some
      chance Palatinate, or so, we might have to “burn,” by way of
      exception. The “eight thousand at Chatillon” will be got
      dispelled for the moment; the fire scattered, not extinguished.
      To the dints and bruises of outward battle there is to be added
      henceforth a deadlier internal gangrene.

      This rising in La Vendée reports itself at Paris on Wednesday the
      29th of August;—just as we had got our Electors elected; and, in
      spite of Brunswick’s and Longwi’s teeth, were hoping still to
      have a National Convention, if it pleased Heaven. But indeed,
      otherwise, this Wednesday is to be regarded as one of the
      notablest Paris had yet seen: gloomy tidings come successively,
      like Job’s messengers; are met by gloomy answers. Of Sardinia
      rising to invade the South-East, and Spain threatening the South,
      we do not speak. But are not the Prussians masters of Longwi
      (treacherously yielded, one would say); and preparing to besiege
      Verdun? Clairfait and his Austrians are encompassing Thionville;
      darkening the North. Not Metz-land now, but the Clermontais is
      getting harried; flying hulans and huzzars have been seen on the
      Chalons Road, almost as far as Sainte-Menehould. Heart, ye
      Patriots, if ye lose heart, ye lose all!

      It is not without a dramatic emotion that one reads in the
      Parliamentary Debates of this Wednesday evening “past seven
      o’clock,” the scene with the military fugitives from Longwi.
      Wayworn, dusty, disheartened, these poor men enter the
      Legislative, about sunset or after; give the most pathetic detail
      of the frightful pass they were in:—Prussians billowing round by
      the myriad, volcanically spouting fire for fifteen hours: we,
      scattered sparse on the ramparts, hardly a cannoneer to two guns;
      our dastard Commandant Lavergne no where shewing face; the
      priming would not catch; there was no powder in the bombs,—what
      could we do? ‘_Mourir!_ Die!’ answer prompt voices;[518] and the
      dusty fugitives must shrink elsewhither for comfort.—Yes,
      _Mourir_, that is now the word. Be Longwi a proverb and a hissing
      among French strong-places: let it (says the Legislative) be
      obliterated rather, from the shamed face of the Earth;—and so
      there has gone forth Decree, that Longwi shall, were the
      Prussians once out of it, “be rased,” and exist only as ploughed
      ground.

      Nor are the Jacobins milder; as how could they, the flower of
      Patriotism? Poor Dame Lavergne, wife of the poor Commandant, took
      her parasol one evening, and escorted by her Father came over to
      the Hall of the mighty Mother; and “reads a memoir tending to
      justify the Commandant of Longwi.” _Lafarge, President_, makes
      answer: ‘Citoyenne, the Nation will judge Lavergne; the Jacobins
      are bound to tell him the truth. He would have ended his course
      there (_termine sa carrière_), if he had loved the honour of his
      country.’[519]


      Chapter 3.1.II.
      Danton.

      But better than rasing of Longwi, or rebuking poor dusty soldiers
      or soldiers’ wives, Danton had come over, last night, and
      demanded a Decree to _search_ for arms, since they were not
      yielded voluntarily. Let “Domiciliary visits,” with rigour of
      authority, be made to this end. To search for arms; for
      horses,—Aristocratism rolls in its carriage, while Patriotism
      cannot trail its cannon. To search generally for munitions of
      war, “in the houses of persons suspect,”—and even, if it seem
      proper, to seize and imprison the suspect persons themselves! In
      the Prisons, their plots will be harmless; in the Prisons, they
      will be as hostages for us, and not without use. This Decree the
      energetic Minister of Justice demanded, last night, and got; and
      this same night it is to be executed; it is being executed, at
      the moment when these dusty soldiers get saluted with _Mourir_.
      Two thousand stand of arms, as they count, are foraged in this
      way; and some four hundred head of new Prisoners; and, on the
      whole, such a terror and damp is struck through the Aristocrat
      heart, as all but Patriotism, and even Patriotism were it out of
      this agony, might pity. Yes, Messieurs! if Brunswick blast Paris
      to ashes, he probably will blast the Prisons of Paris too: pale
      Terror, if we have got it, we will also give it, and the depth of
      horrors that lie in it; the same leaky bottom, in these wild
      waters, bears us all.

      One can judge what stir there was now among the “thirty thousand
      Royalists:” how the Plotters, or the accused of Plotting, shrank
      each closer into his lurking-place,—like Bertrand Moleville,
      looking eager towards Longwi, hoping the weather would keep fair.
      Or how they dressed themselves in valet’s clothes, like Narbonne,
      and “got to England as Dr. Bollman’s famulus:” how Dame de Staël
      bestirred herself, pleading with Manuel as a Sister in
      Literature, pleading even with Clerk Tallien; a pray to nameless
      chagrins![520] Royalist Peltier, the Pamphleteer, gives a
      touching Narrative (not deficient in height of colouring) of the
      terrors of that night. From five in the afternoon, a great City
      is struck suddenly silent; except for the beating of drums, for
      the tramp of marching feet; and ever and anon the dread thunder
      of the knocker at some door, a Tricolor Commissioner with his
      blue Guards (_black_-guards!) arriving. All Streets are vacant,
      says Peltier; beset by Guards at each end: all Citizens are
      ordered to be within doors. On the River float sentinal barges,
      lest we escape by water: the Barriers hermetically closed.
      Frightful! The sun shines; serenely westering, in smokeless
      mackerel-sky: Paris is as if sleeping, as if dead:—Paris is
      holding its breath, to see what stroke will fall on it. Poor
      Peltier! _Acts of Apostles_, and all jocundity of
      Leading-Articles, are gone out, and it is become bitter earnest
      instead; polished satire changed now into coarse pike-points
      (hammered out of railing); all logic reduced to this one
      primitive thesis, An eye for an eye, a tooth for a
      tooth!—Peltier, dolefully aware of it, ducks low; escapes
      unscathed to England; to urge there the inky war anew; to have
      Trial by Jury, in due season, and deliverance by young Whig
      eloquence, world-celebrated for a day.

      Of “thirty thousand,” naturally, great multitudes were left
      unmolested: but, as we said, some four hundred, designated as
      “persons suspect,” were seized; and an unspeakable terror fell on
      all. Wo to him who is guilty of Plotting, of Anticivism,
      Royalism, Feuillantism; who, guilty or not guilty, has an enemy
      in his Section to call him guilty! Poor old M. de Cazotte is
      seized, his young loved Daughter with him, refusing to quit him.
      Why, O Cazotte, wouldst thou quit romancing, and _Diable
      Amoureux_, for such reality as this? Poor old M. de Sombreuil, he
      of the _Invalides_, is seized: a man seen askance, by Patriotism
      ever since the Bastille days: whom also a fond Daughter will not
      quit. With young tears hardly suppressed, and old wavering
      weakness rousing itself once more—O my brothers, O my sisters!

      The famed and named go; the nameless, if they have an accuser.
      Necklace Lamotte’s Husband is in these Prisons (_she_ long since
      squelched on the London Pavements); but gets delivered. Gross de
      Morande, of the _Courier de l’Europe_, hobbles distractedly to
      and fro there: but they let him hobble out; on right nimble
      crutches;—his hour not being yet come. Advocate Maton de la
      Varenne, very weak in health, is snatched off from mother and
      kin; Tricolor Rossignol (journeyman goldsmith and scoundrel
      lately, a risen man now) remembers an old Pleading of Maton’s!
      Jourgniac de Saint-Méard goes; the brisk frank soldier: he was in
      the Mutiny of Nancy, in that “effervescent Regiment du Roi,”—on
      the wrong side. Saddest of all: Abbé Sicard goes; a Priest who
      could not take the Oath, but who could teach the Deaf and Dumb:
      in his Section one man, he says, had a grudge at him; one man, at
      the fit hour, launches an arrest against him; which hits. In the
      Arsenal quarter, there are dumb hearts making wail, with signs,
      with wild gestures; he their miraculous healer and speech-bringer
      is rapt away.

      What with the arrestments on this night of the Twenty-ninth, what
      with those that have gone on more or less, day and night, ever
      since the Tenth, one may fancy what the Prisons now were.
      Crowding and Confusion; jostle, hurry, vehemence and terror! Of
      the poor Queen’s Friends, who had followed her to the Temple and
      been committed elsewhither to Prison, some, as Governess de
      Tourzelle, are to be let go: one, the poor Princess de Lamballe,
      is not let go; but waits in the strong-rooms of La Force there,
      what will betide further.

      Among so many hundreds whom the launched arrest hits, who are
      rolled off to Townhall or Section-hall, to preliminary Houses of
      detention, and hurled in thither, as into cattle-pens, we must
      mention one other: Caron de Beaumarchais, Author of _Figaro;_
      vanquisher of Maupeou Parlements and Goezman helldogs; once
      numbered among the demigods; and now—? We left him in his
      culminant state; what dreadful decline is this, when we again
      catch a glimpse of him! “At midnight” (it was but the 12th of
      August yet), “the servant, in his shirt,” with wide-staring eyes,
      enters your room:—Monsieur, rise; all the people are come to seek
      you; they are knocking, like to break in the door! “And they were
      in fact knocking in a terrible manner (_d’une façon terrible_). I
      fling on my coat, forgetting even the waistcoat, nothing on my
      feet but slippers; and say to him”—And _he_, alas, answers mere
      negatory incoherences, panic interjections. And through the
      shutters and crevices, in front or rearward, the dull
      street-lamps disclose only streetfuls of haggard countenances;
      clamorous, bristling with pikes: and you rush distracted for an
      outlet, finding none;—and have to take refuge in the
      crockery-press, down stairs; and stand there, palpitating in that
      imperfect costume, lights dancing past your key-hole, tramp of
      feet overhead, and the tumult of Satan, “for four hours and
      more!” And old ladies, of the quarter, started up (as we hear
      next morning); rang for their _bonnes_ and cordial-drops, with
      shrill interjections: and old gentlemen, in their shirts, “leapt
      garden-walls;” flying, while none pursued; one of whom
      unfortunately broke his leg.[521] Those sixty thousand stand of
      Dutch arms (which never arrive), and the bold stroke of trade,
      have turned out so ill!—

      Beaumarchais escaped for this time; but not for the next time,
      ten days after. On the evening of the Twenty-ninth he is still in
      that chaos of the Prisons, in saddest, wrestling condition;
      unable to get justice, even to get audience; “Panis scratching
      his head” when you speak to him, and making off. Nevertheless let
      the lover of Figaro know that Procureur Manuel, a Brother in
      Literature, found him, and delivered him once more. But how the
      lean demigod, now shorn of his splendour, had to lurk in barns,
      to roam over harrowed fields, panting for life; and to wait under
      eavesdrops, and sit in darkness “on the Boulevard amid
      paving-stones and boulders,” longing for one word of any
      Minister, or Minister’s Clerk, about those accursed Dutch
      muskets, and getting none,—with heart fuming in spleen, and
      terror, and suppressed canine-madness: alas, how the swift sharp
      hound, once fit to be Diana’s, breaks his old teeth now, gnawing
      mere whinstones; and must “fly to England;” and, returning from
      England, must creep into the corner, and lie quiet, toothless
      (moneyless),—all this let the lover of Figaro fancy, and weep
      for. We here, without weeping, not without sadness, wave the
      withered tough fellow-mortal our farewell. His Figaro has
      returned to the French stage; nay is, at this day, sometimes
      named the best piece there. And indeed, so long as Man’s Life can
      ground itself only on artificiality and aridity; each new Revolt
      and Change of Dynasty turning up only a new stratum of
      _dry-rubbish_, and no _soil_ yet coming to view,—may it not be
      good to protest against such a Life, in many ways, and even in
      the Figaro way?


      Chapter 3.1.III.
      Dumouriez.

      Such are the last days of August, 1792; days gloomy, disastrous,
      and of evil omen. What will become of this poor France? Dumouriez
      rode from the Camp of Maulde, eastward to Sedan, on Tuesday last,
      the 28th of the month; reviewed that so-called Army left forlorn
      there by Lafayette: the forlorn soldiers gloomed on him; were
      heard growling on him, ‘This is one of them, _ce b—e là_, that
      made War be declared.’[522] Unpromising Army! Recruits flow in,
      filtering through Dépôt after Dépôt; but recruits merely: in want
      of all; happy if they have so much as arms. And Longwi has fallen
      basely; and Brunswick, and the Prussian King, with his sixty
      thousand, will beleaguer Verdun; and Clairfait and Austrians
      press deeper in, over the Northern marches: “a hundred and fifty
      thousand” as fear counts, “eighty thousand” as the returns shew,
      do hem us in; Cimmerian Europe behind them. There is
      Castries-and-Broglie chivalry; Royalist foot “in red facing and
      nankeen trousers;” breathing death and the gallows.

      And lo, finally! at Verdun on Sunday the 2d of September 1792,
      Brunswick is here. With his King and sixty thousand, glittering
      over the heights, from beyond the winding Meuse River, he looks
      down on us, on our “high citadel” and all our confectionery-ovens
      (for we are celebrated for confectionery) has sent courteous
      summons, in order to spare the effusion of blood!—Resist him to
      the death? Every day of retardation precious? How, O General
      Beaurepaire (asks the amazed Municipality) shall we resist him?
      We, the Verdun Municipals, see no resistance possible. Has he not
      sixty thousand, and artillery without end? Retardation,
      Patriotism is good; but so likewise is peaceable baking of
      pastry, and sleeping in whole skin.—Hapless Beaurepaire stretches
      out his hands, and pleads passionately, in the name of country,
      honour, of Heaven and of Earth: to no purpose. The Municipals
      have, by law, the power of ordering it;—with an Army officered by
      Royalism or Crypto-Royalism, such a Law seemed needful: and they
      order it, as pacific Pastrycooks, not as heroic Patriots
      would,—To surrender! Beaurepaire strides home, with long steps:
      his valet, entering the room, sees him “writing eagerly,” and
      withdraws. His valet hears then, in a few minutes, the report of
      a pistol: Beaurepaire is lying dead; his eager writing had been a
      brief suicidal farewell. In this manner died Beaurepaire, wept of
      France; buried in the Pantheon, with honourable pension to his
      Widow, and for Epitaph these words, _He chose Death rather than
      yield to Despots_. The Prussians, descending from the heights,
      are peaceable masters of Verdun.

      And so Brunswick advances, from stage to stage: who shall now
      stay him,—covering forty miles of country? Foragers fly far; the
      villages of the North-East are harried; your Hessian forager has
      only “three sous a day:” the very Emigrants, it is said, will
      take silver-plate,—by way of revenge. Clermont, Sainte-Menehould,
      Varennes especially, ye Towns of the _Night of Spurs;_ tremble
      ye! Procureur Sausse and the Magistracy of Varennes have fled;
      brave Boniface Le Blanc of the _Bras d’Or_ is to the woods: Mrs.
      Le Blanc, a young woman fair to look upon, with her young infant,
      has to live in greenwood, like a beautiful Bessy Bell of Song,
      her bower thatched with rushes;—catching premature
      rheumatism.[523] Clermont may ring the tocsin now, and illuminate
      itself! Clermont lies at the foot of its _Cow_ (or _Vache_, so
      they name that Mountain), a prey to the Hessian spoiler: its fair
      women, fairer than most, are robbed: not of life, or what is
      dearer, yet of all that is cheaper and portable; for Necessity,
      on three half-pence a-day, has no law. At Saint-Menehould, the
      enemy has been expected more than once,—our Nationals all turning
      out in arms; but was not yet seen. Post-master Drouet, he is not
      in the woods, but minding his Election; and will sit in the
      Convention, notable King-taker, and bold Old-Dragoon as he is.

      Thus on the North-East all roams and runs; and on a set day, the
      _date_ of which is irrecoverable by History, Brunswick “has
      engaged to dine in Paris,”—the Powers willing. And at Paris, in
      the centre, it is as we saw; and in La Vendée, South-West, it is
      as we saw; and Sardinia is in the South-East, and Spain is in the
      South, and Clairfait with Austria and sieged Thionville is in the
      North;—and all France leaps distracted, like the winnowed Sahara
      waltzing in sand-colonnades! More desperate posture no country
      ever stood in. A country, one would say, which the Majesty of
      Prussia (if it so pleased him) might partition, and clip in
      pieces, like a Poland; flinging the remainder to poor Brother
      Louis,—with directions to keep it quiet, or else _we_ will keep
      it for him!

      Or perhaps the Upper Powers, minded that a new Chapter in
      Universal History shall begin here and not further on, may have
      ordered it all otherwise? In that case, Brunswick will not dine
      in Paris on the set day; nor, indeed, one knows not when!—Verily,
      amid this wreckage, where poor France seems grinding itself down
      to dust and bottomless ruin, who knows what miraculous
      salient-point of Deliverance and New-life may have already come
      into existence there; and be already working there, though as yet
      human eye discern it not! On the night of that same twenty-eighth
      of August, the unpromising Review-day in Sedan, Dumouriez
      assembles a Council of War at his lodgings there. He spreads out
      the map of this forlorn war-district: Prussians here, Austrians
      there; triumphant both, with broad highway, and little
      hinderance, all the way to Paris; we, scattered helpless, here
      and here: what to advise? The Generals, strangers to Dumouriez,
      look blank enough; know not well what to advise,—if it be not
      retreating, and retreating till our recruits accumulate; till
      perhaps the chapter of chances turn up some leaf for us; or
      Paris, at all events, be sacked at the latest day possible. The
      Many-counselled, who “has not closed an eye for three nights,”
      listens with little speech to these long cheerless speeches;
      merely watching the speaker that he may know him; then wishes
      them all good-night;—but beckons a certain young Thouvenot, the
      fire of whose looks had pleased him, to wait a moment. Thouvenot
      waits: _Voilà_, says Polymetis, pointing to the map! That is the
      Forest of Argonne, that long stripe of rocky Mountain and wild
      Wood; forty miles long; with but five, or say even three
      practicable Passes through it: this, for they have forgotten it,
      might one not still seize, though Clairfait sits so nigh? Once
      seized;—the Champagne called the Hungry (or worse, Champagne
      _Pouilleuse_) on their side of it; the fat Three Bishoprics, and
      willing France, on ours; and the Equinox-rains not far;—this
      Argonne “might be the Thermopylae of France!”[524]

      O brisk Dumouriez Polymetis with thy teeming head, may the gods
      grant it!—Polymetis, at any rate, folds his map together, and
      flings himself on bed; resolved to try, on the morrow morning.
      With astucity, with swiftness, with audacity! One had need to be
      a lion-fox, and have luck on one’s side.


      Chapter 3.1.IV.
      September in Paris.

      At Paris, by lying Rumour which proved prophetic and veridical,
      the fall of Verdun was known some hours _before_ it happened. It
      is Sunday the second of September; handiwork hinders not the
      speculations of the mind. Verdun gone (though some still deny
      it); the Prussians in full march, with gallows-ropes, with fire
      and faggot! Thirty thousand Aristocrats within our own walls; and
      but the merest quarter-tithe of them yet put in Prison! Nay there
      goes a word that even these will revolt. Sieur Jean Julien,
      wagoner of Vaugirard,[525] being set in the Pillory last Friday,
      took all at once to crying, That he would be well revenged ere
      long; that the King’s Friends in Prison would burst out; force
      the Temple, set the King on horseback; and, joined by the
      unimprisoned, ride roughshod over us all. This the unfortunate
      wagoner of Vaugirard did bawl, at the top of his lungs: when
      snatched off to the Townhall, he persisted in it, still bawling;
      yesternight, when they guillotined him, he died with the froth of
      it on his lips.[526] For a man’s mind, padlocked to the Pillory,
      may go mad; and all men’s minds may go mad; and “believe him,” as
      the frenetic will do, “_because_ it is impossible.”

      So that apparently the knot of the crisis, and last agony of
      France is come? Make front to this, thou Improvised Commune,
      strong Danton, whatsoever man is strong! Readers can judge
      whether the Flag of Country in Danger flapped soothing or
      distractively on the souls of men, that day.

      But the Improvised Commune, but strong Danton is not wanting,
      each after his kind. Huge Placards are getting plastered to the
      walls; at two o’clock the stormbell shall be sounded, the
      alarm-cannon fired; all Paris shall rush to the Champ-de-Mars,
      and have itself enrolled. Unarmed, truly, and undrilled; but
      desperate, in the strength of frenzy. Haste, ye men; ye very
      women, offer to mount guard and shoulder the brown musket: weak
      clucking-hens, in a state of desperation, will fly at the muzzle
      of the mastiff, and even conquer him,—by vehemence of character!
      Terror itself, when once grown transcendental, becomes a kind of
      courage; as frost sufficiently intense, according to Poet Milton,
      will _burn_.—Danton, the other night, in the Legislative
      Committee of General Defence, when the other Ministers and
      Legislators had all opined, said, It would not do to quit Paris,
      and fly to Saumur; that they must abide by Paris; and take such
      attitude as would put their enemies in fear,—_faire peur;_ a word
      of his which has been often repeated, and reprinted—in
      italics.[527]

      At two of the clock, Beaurepaire, as we saw, has shot himself at
      Verdun; and over Europe, mortals are going in for afternoon
      sermon. But at Paris, all steeples are clangouring not for
      sermon; the alarm-gun booming from minute to minute;
      Champ-de-Mars and Fatherland’s Altar boiling with desperate
      terror-courage: what a _miserere_ going up to Heaven from this
      once Capital of the Most Christian King! The Legislative sits in
      alternate awe and effervescence; Vergniaud proposing that Twelve
      shall go and dig personally on Montmartre; which is decreed by
      acclaim.

      But better than digging personally with acclaim, see Danton
      enter;—the black brows clouded, the colossus-figure tramping
      heavy; grim energy looking from all features of the rugged man!
      Strong is that grim Son of France, and Son of Earth; a Reality
      and not a Formula he too; and surely now if ever, being hurled
      _low_ enough, it is on the Earth and on Realities that he rests.
      ‘Legislators!’ so speaks the stentor-voice, as the Newspapers yet
      preserve it for us, ‘it is not the alarm-cannon that you hear: it
      is the _pas-de-charge_ against our enemies. To conquer them, to
      hurl them back, what do we require? _Il nous faut de l’audace, et
      encore de l’audace, et toujours de l’audace_, To dare, and again
      to dare, and without end to dare!’[528]—Right so, thou brawny
      Titan; there is nothing left for thee but that. Old men, who
      heard it, will still tell you how the reverberating voice made
      all hearts swell, in that moment; and braced them to the
      sticking-place; and thrilled abroad over France, like electric
      virtue, as a word spoken in season.

      But the Commune, enrolling in the Champ-de-Mars? But the
      Committee of Watchfulness, become now Committee of Public
      Salvation; whose conscience is Marat? The Commune enrolling
      enrolls many; provides Tents for them in that Mars’-Field, that
      they may march with dawn on the morrow: praise to this part of
      the Commune! To Marat and the Committee of Watchfulness not
      praise;—not even blame, such as could be meted out in these
      insufficient dialects of ours; expressive silence rather! Lone
      Marat, the man forbid, meditating long in his Cellars of refuge,
      on his Stylites Pillar, could see salvation in one thing only: in
      the fall of “two hundred and sixty thousand Aristocrat heads.”
      With so many score of Naples Bravoes, each a dirk in his
      right-hand, a muff on his left, he would traverse France, and do
      it. But the world laughed, mocking the severe-benevolence of a
      People’s-Friend; and his idea could not become an action, but
      only a fixed-idea. Lo, now, however, he has come down from his
      Stylites Pillar, to a _Tribune particulière;_ here now, without
      the dirks, without the muffs at least, were it not grown
      possible,—now in the knot of the crisis, when salvation or
      destruction hangs in the hour!

      The Ice-Tower of Avignon was noised of sufficiently, and lives in
      all memories; but the authors were not punished: nay we saw
      Jourdan Coupe-tete, borne on men’s shoulders, like a copper
      Portent, “traversing the cities of the South.”—What phantasms,
      squalid-horrid, shaking their dirk and muff, may dance through
      the brain of a Marat, in this dizzy pealing of tocsin-miserere,
      and universal frenzy, seek not to guess, O Reader! Nor what the
      cruel Billaud “in his short brown coat was thinking;” nor
      Sergent, not yet _Agate_-Sergent; nor Panis the confident of
      Danton;—nor, in a word, how gloomy Orcus does breed in her gloomy
      womb, and fashion her monsters, and prodigies of Events, which
      thou seest her visibly bear! Terror is on these streets of Paris;
      terror and rage, tears and frenzy: tocsin-miserere pealing
      through the air; fierce desperation rushing to battle; mothers,
      with streaming eyes and wild hearts, sending forth their sons to
      die. “Carriage-horses are seized by the bridle,” that they may
      draw cannon; “the traces cut, the carriages left standing.” In
      such tocsin-miserere, and murky bewilderment of Frenzy, are not
      Murder, Ate, and all Furies near at hand? On slight hint, who
      knows on how slight, may not Murder come; and, with _her_
      snaky-sparkling hand, illuminate this murk!

      How it was and went, what part might be premeditated, what was
      improvised and accidental, man will never know, till the great
      Day of Judgment make it known. But with a Marat for keeper of the
      Sovereign’s Conscience—And we know what the _ultima ratio_ of
      Sovereigns, when they are driven to it, is! In this Paris there
      are as many wicked men, say a hundred or more, as exist in all
      the Earth: to be hired, and set on; to set on, of their own
      accord, unhired.—And yet we will remark that premeditation itself
      is not performance, is not surety of performance; that it is
      perhaps, at most, surety of _letting_ whosoever wills perform.
      From the purpose of crime to the act of crime there is an abyss;
      wonderful to think of. The finger lies on the pistol; but the man
      is not yet a murderer: nay, his whole nature staggering at such
      consummation, is there not a confused pause rather,—one last
      instant of possibility for him? Not yet a murderer; it is at the
      mercy of light trifles whether the most fixed idea may not yet
      become unfixed. One slight twitch of a muscle, the death flash
      bursts; and he is it, and will for Eternity be it;—and Earth has
      become a penal Tartarus for him; his horizon girdled now not with
      golden hope, but with red flames of remorse; voices from the
      depths of Nature sounding, Wo, wo on him!

      Of such stuff are we all made; on such powder-mines of bottomless
      guilt and criminality, “if God restrained not; as is well
      said,—does the purest of us walk. There are depths in man that go
      the length of lowest Hell, as there are heights that reach
      highest Heaven;—for are not both Heaven and Hell made out of him,
      made by him, everlasting Miracle and Mystery as he is?—But
      looking on this Champ-de-Mars, with its tent-buildings, and
      frantic enrolments; on this murky-simmering Paris, with its
      crammed Prisons (supposed about to burst), with its
      tocsin-miserere, its mothers’ tears, and soldiers’ farewell
      shoutings,—the pious soul might have prayed, that day, that God’s
      grace would restrain, and greatly restrain; lest on slight hest
      or hint, Madness, Horror and Murder rose, and this Sabbath-day of
      September became a Day black in the Annals of Men.—

      The tocsin is pealing its loudest, the clocks inaudibly striking
      _Three_, when poor Abbé Sicard, with some thirty other Nonjurant
      Priests, in six carriages, fare along the streets, from their
      preliminary House of Detention at the Townhall, westward towards
      the Prison of the Abbaye. Carriages enough stand deserted on the
      streets; these six move on,—through angry multitudes, cursing as
      they move. Accursed Aristocrat Tartuffes, this is the pass ye
      have brought us to! And now ye will break the Prisons, and set
      Capet Veto on horseback to ride over us? Out upon you, Priests of
      Beelzebub and Moloch; of Tartuffery, Mammon, and the Prussian
      Gallows,—which ye name Mother-Church and God! Such reproaches
      have the poor Nonjurants to endure, and worse; spoken in on them
      by frantic Patriots, who mount even on the carriage-steps; the
      very Guards hardly refraining. Pull up your carriage-blinds!—No!
      answers Patriotism, clapping its horny paw on the carriage blind,
      and crushing it down again. Patience in oppression has limits: we
      are close on the Abbaye, it has lasted long: a poor Nonjurant, of
      quicker temper, smites the horny paw with his cane; nay, finding
      solacement in it, smites the unkempt head, sharply and again more
      sharply, twice over,—seen clearly of us and of the world. It is
      the last that we see clearly. Alas, next moment, the carriages
      are locked and blocked in endless raging tumults; in yells deaf
      to the cry for mercy, which answer the cry for mercy with
      sabre-thrusts through the heart.[529] The thirty Priests are torn
      out, are massacred about the Prison-Gate, one after one,—only the
      poor Abbé Sicard, whom one Moton a watchmaker, knowing him,
      heroically tried to save, and secrete in the Prison, escapes to
      tell;—and it is Night and Orcus, and Murder’s snaky-sparkling
      head _has_ risen in the murk!—

      From Sunday afternoon (exclusive of intervals, and pauses not
      final) till Thursday evening, there follow consecutively a
      Hundred Hours. Which hundred hours are to be reckoned with the
      hours of the Bartholomew Butchery, of the Armagnac Massacres,
      Sicilian Vespers, or whatsoever is savagest in the annals of this
      world. Horrible the hour when man’s soul, in its paroxysm, spurns
      asunder the barriers and rules; and shews what dens and depths
      are in it! For Night and Orcus, as we say, as was long
      prophesied, have burst forth, here in this Paris, from their
      subterranean imprisonment: hideous, dim, confused; which it is
      painful to look on; and yet which cannot, and indeed which should
      not, be forgotten.

      The Reader, who looks earnestly through this dim Phantasmagory of
      the Pit, will discern few fixed certain objects; and yet still a
      few. He will observe, in this Abbaye Prison, the sudden massacre
      of the Priests being once over, a strange Court of Justice, or
      call it Court of Revenge and Wild-Justice, swiftly fashion
      itself, and take seat round a table, with the Prison-Registers
      spread before it;—Stanislas Maillard, Bastille-hero, famed Leader
      of the Menads, presiding. O Stanislas, one hoped to meet thee
      elsewhere than here; thou shifty Riding-Usher, with an inkling of
      Law! This work also thou hadst to do; and then—to depart for ever
      from our eyes. At _La Force_, at the _Châtelet_, the
      _Conciergerie_, the like Court forms itself, with the like
      accompaniments: the thing that one man does other men can do.
      There are some Seven Prisons in Paris, full of Aristocrats with
      conspiracies;—nay not even _Bicêtre_ and _Salpêtrière_ shall
      escape, with their Forgers of Assignats: and there are seventy
      times seven hundred Patriot hearts in a state of frenzy.
      Scoundrel hearts also there are; as perfect, say, as the Earth
      holds,—if such are needed. To whom, in this mood, law is as
      no-law; and killing, by what name soever called, is but work to
      be done.

      So sit these sudden Courts of Wild-Justice, with the
      Prison-Registers before them; unwonted wild tumult howling all
      round: the Prisoners in dread expectancy within. Swift: a name is
      called; bolts jingle, a Prisoner is there. A few questions are
      put; swiftly this sudden Jury decides: Royalist Plotter or not?
      Clearly not; in that case, Let the Prisoner be enlarged With
      _Vive la Nation_. Probably yea; then still, Let the Prisoner be
      enlarged, but without _Vive la Nation;_ or else it may run, Let
      the prisoner be conducted to La Force. At La Force again their
      formula is, Let the Prisoner be conducted to the Abbaye.—‘To La
      Force then!’ Volunteer bailiffs seize the doomed man; he is at
      the outer gate; “enlarged,” or “conducted,”—not into La Force,
      but into a howling sea; forth, under an arch of wild sabres, axes
      and pikes; and sinks, hewn asunder. And another sinks, and
      another; and there forms itself a piled heap of corpses, and the
      kennels begin to run red. Fancy the yells of these men, their
      faces of sweat and blood; the crueller shrieks of these women,
      for there are women too; and a fellow-mortal hurled naked into it
      all! Jourgniac de Saint Méard has seen battle, has seen an
      effervescent Regiment du Roi in mutiny; but the bravest heart may
      quail at this. The Swiss Prisoners, remnants of the Tenth of
      August, “clasped each other spasmodically,” and hung back; grey
      veterans crying: ‘Mercy Messieurs; ah, mercy!’ But there was no
      mercy. Suddenly, however, one of these men steps forward. He had
      a blue frock coat; he seemed to be about thirty, his stature was
      above common, his look noble and martial. ‘I go first,’ said he,
      ‘since it must be so: adieu!’ Then dashing his hat sharply behind
      him: ‘Which way?’ cried he to the Brigands: ‘Shew it me, then.’
      They open the folding gate; he is announced to the multitude. He
      stands a moment motionless; then plunges forth among the pikes,
      and dies of a thousand wounds.”[530]

      Man after man is cut down; the sabres need sharpening, the
      killers refresh themselves from wine jugs. Onward and onward goes
      the butchery; the loud yells wearying down into bass growls. A
      sombre-faced, shifting multitude looks on; in dull approval, or
      dull disapproval; in dull recognition that it is Necessity. “An
      _Anglais_ in drab greatcoat” was seen, or seemed to be seen,
      serving liquor from his own dram-bottle;—for what purpose, “if
      not set on by Pitt,” Satan and himself know best! Witty Dr. Moore
      grew sick on approaching, and turned into another
      street.[531]—Quick enough goes this Jury-Court; and rigorous. The
      brave are not spared, nor the beautiful, nor the weak. Old M. de
      Montmorin, the Minister’s Brother, was acquitted by the Tribunal
      of the Seventeenth; and conducted back, elbowed by howling
      galleries; but is not acquitted here. Princess de Lamballe has
      lain down on bed: ‘Madame, you are to be removed to the Abbaye.’
      ‘I do not wish to remove; I am well enough here.’ There is a
      need-be for removing. She will arrange her dress a little, then;
      rude voices answer, ‘You have not far to go.’ She too is led to
      the hell-gate; a manifest Queen’s-Friend. She shivers back, at
      the sight of bloody sabres; but there is no return: Onwards! That
      fair hindhead is cleft with the axe; the neck is severed. That
      fair body is cut in fragments; with indignities, and obscene
      horrors of moustachio _grands-lèvres_, which human nature would
      fain find incredible,—which shall be read in the original
      language only. She was beautiful, she was good, she had known no
      happiness. Young hearts, generation after generation, will think
      with themselves: O worthy of worship, thou king-descended,
      god-descended and poor sister-woman! why was not I there; and
      some Sword Balmung, or Thor’s Hammer in my hand? Her head is
      fixed on a pike; paraded under the windows of the Temple; that a
      still more hated, a Marie-Antoinette, may see. One Municipal, in
      the Temple with the Royal Prisoners at the moment, said, ‘Look
      out.’ Another eagerly whispered, ‘Do not look.’ The circuit of
      the Temple is guarded, in these hours, by a long stretched
      tricolor riband: terror enters, and the clangour of infinite
      tumult: hitherto not regicide, though that too may come.

      But it is more edifying to note what thrillings of affection,
      what fragments of wild virtues turn up, in this shaking asunder
      of man’s existence, for of these too there is a proportion. Note
      old Marquis Cazotte: he is doomed to die; but his young Daughter
      clasps him in her arms, with an inspiration of eloquence, with a
      love which is stronger than very death; the heart of the killers
      themselves is touched by it; the old man is spared. Yet he was
      guilty, if plotting for his King is guilt: in ten days more, a
      Court of Law condemned him, and he had to die elsewhere;
      bequeathing his Daughter a lock of his old grey hair. Or note old
      M. de Sombreuil, who also had a Daughter:—My Father is not an
      Aristocrat; O good gentlemen, I will swear it, and testify it,
      and in all ways prove it; we are not; we hate Aristocrats! ‘Wilt
      thou drink Aristocrats’ blood?’ The man lifts blood (if universal
      Rumour can be credited);[532] the poor maiden does drink. ‘This
      Sombreuil is innocent then!’ Yes indeed,—and now note, most of
      all, how the bloody pikes, at this news, do rattle to the ground;
      and the tiger-yells become bursts of jubilee over a brother
      saved; and the old man and his daughter are clasped to bloody
      bosoms, with hot tears, and borne home in triumph of _Vive la
      Nation_, the killers refusing even money! Does it seem strange,
      this temper of theirs? It seems very certain, well proved by
      Royalist testimony in other instances;[533] and very significant.


      Chapter 3.1.V.
      A Trilogy.

      As all Delineation, in these ages, were it never so Epic,
      “speaking itself and not singing itself,” must either found on
      Belief and provable Fact, or have no foundation at all (nor
      except as floating cobweb any existence at all),—the Reader will
      perhaps prefer to take a glance with the very eyes of
      eye-witnesses; and see, in that way, for himself, how it was.
      Brave Jourgniac, innocent Abbé Sicard, judicious Advocate Maton,
      these, greatly compressing themselves, shall speak, each an
      instant. Jourgniac’s _Agony of Thirty-eight Hours_ went through
      “above a hundred editions,” though intrinsically a poor work.
      Some portion of it may here go through above the
      hundred-and-first, for want of a better.

      “_Towards seven o’clock_” (Sunday night, at the Abbaye; for
      Jourgniac goes by dates): “We saw two men enter, their hands
      bloody and armed with sabres; a turnkey, with a torch, lighted
      them; he pointed to the bed of the unfortunate Swiss, Reding.
      Reding spoke with a dying voice. One of them paused; but the
      other cried _Allons donc;_ lifted the unfortunate man; carried
      him out on his back to the street. He was massacred there.

      “We all looked at one another in silence, we clasped each other’s
      hands. Motionless, with fixed eyes, we gazed on the pavement of
      our prison; on which lay the moonlight, checkered with the triple
      stancheons of our windows.

      “_Three in the morning:_ They were breaking-in one of the
      prison-doors. We at first thought they were coming to kill us in
      our room; but heard, by voices on the staircase, that it was a
      room where some Prisoners had barricaded themselves. They were
      all butchered there, as we shortly gathered.

      “_Ten o’clock:_ The Abbé Lenfant and the Abbé de Chapt-Rastignac
      appeared in the pulpit of the Chapel, which was our prison; they
      had entered by a door from the stairs. They said to us that our
      end was at hand; that we must compose ourselves, and receive
      their last blessing. An electric movement, not to be defined,
      threw us all on our knees, and we received it. These two
      whitehaired old men, blessing us from their place above; death
      hovering over our heads, on all hands environing us; the moment
      is never to be forgotten. Half an hour after, they were both
      massacred, and we heard their cries.”[534]—Thus Jourgniac in his
      _Agony_ in the Abbaye.

      But now let the good Maton speak, what he, over in La Force, in
      the same hours, is suffering and witnessing. This _Résurrection_
      by him is greatly the best, the least theatrical of these
      Pamphlets; and stands testing by documents:

      “Towards seven o’clock,” on Sunday night, “prisoners were called
      frequently, and they did not reappear. Each of us reasoned in his
      own way, on this singularity: but our ideas became calm, as we
      persuaded ourselves that the Memorial I had drawn up for the
      National Assembly was producing effect.

      “At one in the morning, the grate which led to our quarter opened
      anew. Four men in uniform, each with a drawn sabre and blazing
      torch, came up to our corridor, preceded by a turnkey; and
      entered an apartment close to ours, to investigate a box there,
      which we heard them break up. This done, they stept into the
      gallery, and questioned the man Cuissa, to know where Lamotte
      (Necklace’s Widower) was. Lamotte, they said, had some months
      ago, under pretext of a treasure he knew of, swindled a sum of
      three-hundred livres from one of them, inviting him to dinner for
      that purpose. The wretched Cuissa, now in their hands, who indeed
      lost his life this night, answered trembling, That he remembered
      the fact well, but could not tell what was become of Lamotte.
      Determined to find Lamotte and confront him with Cuissa, they
      rummaged, along with this latter, through various other
      apartments; but without effect, for we heard them say: ‘Come
      search among the corpses then: for, _nom de Dieu!_ we must find
      where he is.’

      “At this time, I heard Louis Bardy, the Abbé Bardy’s name called:
      he was brought out; and directly massacred, as I learnt. He had
      been accused, along with his concubine, five or six years before,
      of having murdered and cut in pieces his own Brother, Auditor of
      the _Chambre des Comptes_ of Montpelier; but had by his subtlety,
      his dexterity, nay his eloquence, outwitted the judges, and
      escaped.

      “One may fancy what terror these words, ‘Come search among the
      corpses then,’ had thrown me into. I saw nothing for it now but
      resigning myself to die. I wrote my last-will; concluding it by a
      petition and adjuration, that the paper should be sent to its
      address. Scarcely had I quitted the pen, when there came two
      other men in uniform; one of them, whose arm and sleeve up to the
      very shoulder, as well as the sabre, were covered with blood,
      said, He was as weary as a hodman that had been beating plaster.

      “Baudin de la Chenaye was called; sixty years of virtues could
      not save him. They said, ‘_À l’Abbaye:_’ he passed the fatal
      outer-gate; gave a cry of terror, at sight of the heaped corpses;
      covered his eyes with his hands, and died of innumerable wounds.
      At every new opening of the grate, I thought I should hear my own
      name called, and see Rossignol enter.

      “I flung off my nightgown and cap; I put on a coarse unwashed
      shirt, a worn frock without waistcoat, an old round hat; these
      things I had sent for, some days ago, in the fear of what might
      happen.

      “The rooms of this corridor had been all emptied but ours. We
      were four together; whom they seemed to have forgotten: we
      addressed our prayers in common to the Eternal to be delivered
      from this peril.

      “Baptiste the turnkey came up by himself, to see us. I took him
      by the hands; I conjured him to save us; promised him a hundred
      louis, if he would conduct me home. A noise coming from the
      grates made him hastily withdraw.

      “It was the noise of some dozen or fifteen men, armed to the
      teeth; as we, lying flat to escape being seen, could see from our
      windows: ‘Up stairs!’ said they: ‘Let not one remain.’ I took out
      my penknife; I considered where I should strike myself,”—but
      reflected “that the blade was too short,” and also “on religion.”

      Finally, however, between seven and eight o’clock in the morning,
      enter four men with bludgeons and sabres!—“to one of whom Gerard
      my comrade whispered, earnestly, apart. During their colloquy I
      searched every where for shoes, that I might lay off the Advocate
      pumps (_pantoufles de Palais_) I had on,” but could find
      none.—“Constant, called le Sauvage, Gerard, and a third whose
      name escapes me, they let clear off: as for me, four sabres were
      crossed over my breast, and they led me down. I was brought to
      their bar; to the Personage with the scarf, who sat as judge
      there. He was a lame man, of tall lank stature. He recognised me
      on the streets, and spoke to me seven months after. I have been
      assured that he was son of a retired attorney, and named Chepy.
      Crossing the Court called _Des Nourrices_, I saw Manuel
      haranguing in tricolor scarf.” The trial, as we see, ends in
      acquittal and _resurrection_.[535]

      Poor Sicard, from the _violon_ of the Abbaye, shall say but a few
      words; true-looking, though tremulous. Towards three in the
      morning, the killers bethink them of this little _violon;_ and
      knock from the court. “I tapped gently, trembling lest the
      murderers might hear, on the opposite door, where the Section
      Committee was sitting: they answered gruffly that they had no
      key. There were three of us in this _violon;_ my companions
      thought they perceived a kind of loft overhead. But it was very
      high; only one of us could reach it, by mounting on the shoulders
      of both the others. One of them said to me, that my life was
      usefuller than theirs: I resisted, they insisted: no denial! I
      fling myself on the neck of these two deliverers; never was scene
      more touching. I mount on the shoulders of the first, then on
      those of the second, finally on the loft; and address to my two
      comrades the expression of a soul overwhelmed with natural
      emotions.[536]

      The two generous companions, we rejoice to find, did not perish.
      But it is time that Jourgniac de Saint-Méard should speak his
      last words, and end this singular trilogy. The night had become
      day; and the day has again become night. Jourgniac, worn down
      with uttermost agitation, has fallen asleep, and had a cheering
      dream: he has also contrived to make acquaintance with one of the
      volunteer bailiffs, and spoken in native Provençal with him. On
      Tuesday, about one in the morning, his _Agony_ is reaching its
      crisis.

      “By the glare of two torches, I now descried the terrible
      tribunal, where lay my life or my death. The President, in grey
      coats, with a sabre at his side, stood leaning with his hands
      against a table, on which were papers, an inkstand, tobacco-pipes
      and bottles. Some ten persons were around, seated or standing;
      two of whom had jackets and aprons: others were sleeping
      stretched on benches. Two men, in bloody shirts, guarded the door
      of the place; an old turnkey had his hand on the lock. In front
      of the President, three men held a Prisoner, who might be about
      sixty” (or seventy: he was old Marshal Maillé, of the Tuileries
      and August Tenth). “They stationed me in a corner; my guards
      crossed their sabres on my breast. I looked on all sides for my
      Provençal: two National Guards, one of them drunk, presented some
      appeal from the Section of Croix Rouge in favour of the Prisoner;
      the Man in Grey answered: ‘They are useless, these appeals for
      traitors.’ Then the Prisoner exclaimed: ‘It is frightful; your
      judgment is a murder.’ The President answered; ‘My hands are
      washed of it; take M. Maillé away.’ They drove him into the
      street; where, through the opening of the door, I saw him
      massacred.

      “The President sat down to write; registering, I suppose, the
      name of this one whom they had finished; then I heard him say:
      ‘Another, _À un autre!_’

      “Behold me then haled before this swift and bloody judgment-bar,
      where the best protection was to have no protection, and all
      resources of ingenuity became null if they were not founded on
      truth. Two of my guards held me each by a hand, the third by the
      collar of my coat. ‘Your name, your profession?’ said the
      President. ‘The smallest lie ruins you,’ added one of the
      judges,—‘My name is Jourgniac Saint-Méard; I have served, as an
      officer, twenty years: and I appear at your tribunal with the
      assurance of an innocent man, who therefore will not lie.’—‘We
      shall see that,’ said the President: ‘Do you know why you are
      arrested?’—‘Yes, Monsieur le President; I am accused of editing
      the Journal _De la Cour et de la Ville_. But I hope to prove the
      falsity’”—

      But no; Jourgniac’s proof of the falsity, and defence generally,
      though of excellent result as a defence, is not interesting to
      read. It is long-winded; there is a loose theatricality in the
      reporting of it, which does not amount to unveracity, yet which
      tends that way. We shall suppose him successful, beyond hope, in
      proving and disproving; and skip largely,—to the catastrophe,
      almost at two steps.

      “‘But after all,’ said one of the Judges, ‘there is no smoke
      without kindling; tell us why they accuse you of that.’—‘I was
      about to do so’”—Jourgniac does so; with more and more success.

      “‘Nay,’ continued I, ‘they accuse me even of recruiting for the
      Emigrants!’ At these words there arose a general murmur. ‘O
      Messieurs, Messieurs,’ I exclaimed, raising my voice, ‘it is my
      turn to speak; I beg M. le President to have the kindness to
      maintain it for me; I never needed it more.’—‘True enough, true
      enough,’ said almost all the judges with a laugh: ‘Silence!’

      “While they were examining the testimonials I had produced, a new
      Prisoner was brought in, and placed before the President. ‘It was
      one Priest more,’ they said, ‘whom they had ferreted out of the
      Chapelle.’ After very few questions: ‘_À la Force!_’ He flung his
      breviary on the table: was hurled forth, and massacred. I
      reappeared before the tribunal.

      “‘You tell us always,’ cried one of the judges, with a tone of
      impatience, ‘that you are not this, that you are not that: what
      are you then?’—‘I was an open Royalist.’—There arose a general
      murmur; which was miraculously appeased by another of the men,
      who had seemed to take an interest in me: ‘We are not here to
      judge opinions,’ said he, ‘but to judge the results of them.’
      Could Rousseau and Voltaire both in one, pleading for me, have
      said better?—‘Yes, Messieurs,’ cried I, ‘always till the Tenth of
      August, I was an open Royalist. Ever since the Tenth of August
      that cause has been finished. I am a Frenchman, true to my
      country. I was always a man of honour.’

      “‘My soldiers never distrusted me. Nay, two days before that
      business of Nanci, when their suspicion of their officers was at
      its height, they chose me for commander, to lead them to
      Lunéville, to get back the prisoners of the Regiment
      Mestre-de-Camp, and seize General Malseigne.’” Which fact there
      is, most luckily, an individual present who by a certain token
      can confirm.

      “The President, this cross-questioning being over, took off his
      hat and said: ‘I see nothing to suspect in this man; I am for
      granting him his liberty. Is that your vote?’ To which all the
      judges answered: ‘_Oui, oui;_ it is just!’”

      And there arose vivats within doors and without; “escort of
      three,” amid shoutings and embracings: thus Jourgniac escaped
      from jury-trial and the jaws of death.[537] Maton and Sicard did,
      either by trial, and no bill found, lank President Chepy finding
      “absolutely nothing;” or else by evasion, and new favour of Moton
      the brave watchmaker, likewise escape; and were embraced, and
      wept over; weeping in return, as they well might.

      Thus they three, in wondrous trilogy, or triple soliloquy;
      uttering simultaneously, through the dread night-watches, their
      Night-thoughts,—grown audible to us! They Three are become
      audible: but the other “Thousand and Eighty-nine, of whom Two
      Hundred and Two were Priests,” who also had Night-thoughts,
      remain inaudible; choked for ever in black Death. Heard only of
      President Chepy and the Man in Grey!—


      Chapter 3.1.VI.
      The Circular.

      But the Constituted Authorities, all this while? The Legislative
      Assembly; the Six Ministers; the Townhall; Santerre with the
      National Guard?—It is very curious to think what a City is.
      Theatres, to the number of some twenty-three, were open every
      night during these prodigies: while right-arms here grew weary
      with slaying, right-arms there are twiddledeeing on melodious
      catgut; at the very instant when Abbé Sicard was clambering up
      his second pair of shoulders, three-men high, five hundred
      thousand human individuals were lying horizontal, as if nothing
      were amiss.

      As for the poor Legislative, the sceptre had departed from it.
      The Legislative did send Deputation to the Prisons, to the
      Street-Courts; and poor M. Dusaulx did harangue there; but
      produced no conviction whatsoever: nay, at last, as he continued
      haranguing, the Street-Court interposed, not without threats; and
      he had to cease, and withdraw. This is the same poor worthy old
      M. Dusaulx who told, or indeed almost sang (though with cracked
      voice), the _Taking of the Bastille_,—to our satisfaction long
      since. He was wont to announce himself, on such and on all
      occasions, as _the Translator of Juvenal_. ‘Good Citizens, you
      see before you a man who loves his country, who is the Translator
      of Juvenal,’ said he once.—‘Juvenal?’ interrupts Sansculottism:
      ‘who the devil is Juvenal? One of your _sacrés Aristocrates?_ To
      the _Lanterne!_’ From an orator of this kind, conviction was not
      to be expected. The Legislative had much ado to save one of its
      own Members, or Ex-Members, Deputy Journeau, who chanced to be
      lying in arrest for mere Parliamentary delinquencies, in these
      Prisons. As for poor old Dusaulx and Company, they returned to
      the Salle de Manége, saying, ‘It was dark; and they could not see
      well what was going on.’[538]

      Roland writes indignant messages, in the name of Order, Humanity,
      and the Law; but there is no Force at his disposal. Santerre’s
      National Force seems lazy to rise; though he made requisitions,
      he says,—which always dispersed again. Nay did not we, with
      Advocate Maton’s eyes, see ‘men in uniform,’ too, with their
      ‘sleeves bloody to the shoulder?’ Pétion goes in tricolor scarf;
      speaks ‘the austere language of the law:’ the killers give up,
      while he is there; when his back is turned, recommence. Manuel
      too in scarf we, with Maton’s eyes, transiently saw haranguing,
      in the Court called of Nurses, _Cour des Nourrices_. On the other
      hand, cruel Billaud, likewise in scarf, “with that small puce
      coat and black wig we are used to on him,”[539] audibly delivers,
      “standing among corpses,” at the Abbaye, a short but
      ever-memorable harangue, reported in various phraseology, but
      always to this purpose: ‘Brave Citizens, you are extirpating the
      Enemies of Liberty; you are at your duty. A grateful Commune, and
      Country, would wish to recompense you adequately; but cannot, for
      you know its want of funds. Whoever shall have worked
      (_travaillé_) in a Prison shall receive a draft of one louis,
      payable by our cashier. Continue your work.’[540]—The Constituted
      Authorities are of yesterday; all pulling different ways: there
      is properly not Constituted Authority, but every man is his own
      King; and all are kinglets, belligerent, allied, or
      armed-neutral, without king over them.

      “O everlasting infamy,” exclaims Montgaillard, “that Paris stood
      looking on in stupor for four days, and did not interfere!” Very
      desirable indeed that Paris had interfered; yet not unnatural
      that it stood even so, looking on in stupor. Paris is in
      death-panic, the enemy and gibbets at its door: whosoever in
      Paris has the heart to front death finds it more pressing to do
      it fighting the Prussians, than fighting the killers of
      Aristocrats. Indignant abhorrence, as in Roland, may be here;
      gloomy sanction, premeditation or not, as in Marat and Committee
      of Salvation, may be there; dull disapproval, dull approval, and
      acquiescence in Necessity and Destiny, is the general temper. The
      Sons of Darkness, “two hundred or so,” risen from their
      lurking-places, have scope to do their work. Urged on by
      fever-frenzy of Patriotism, and the madness of Terror;—urged on
      by lucre, and the gold louis of wages? Nay, not lucre: for the
      gold watches, rings, money of the Massacred, are punctually
      brought to the Townhall, by Killers sans-indispensables, who
      higgle afterwards for their twenty shillings of wages; and
      Sergent sticking an uncommonly fine agate on his finger (“fully
      meaning to account for it”), becomes _Agate_-Sergent. But the
      temper, as we say, is dull acquiescence. Not till the Patriotic
      or Frenetic part of the work is finished for want of material;
      and Sons of Darkness, bent clearly on lucre alone, begin
      wrenching watches and purses, brooches from ladies’ necks “to
      equip volunteers,” in daylight, on the streets,—does the temper
      from dull grow vehement; does the Constable raise his truncheon,
      and striking heartily (like a cattle-driver in earnest) beat the
      “course of things” back into its old regulated drove-roads. The
      _Garde-Meuble_ itself was surreptitiously plundered, on the 17th
      of the Month, to Roland’s new horror; who anew bestirs himself,
      and is, as Sieyes says, “the veto of scoundrels,” Roland _veto
      des coquins_.[541]—

      This is the September Massacre, otherwise called “Severe Justice
      of the People.” These are the Septemberers (_Septembriseurs_); a
      name of some note and lucency,—but lucency of the Nether-fire
      sort; very different from that of our Bastille Heroes, who shone,
      disputable by no Friend of Freedom, as in heavenly
      light-radiance: to such phasis of the business have we advanced
      since then! The numbers massacred are, in Historical _fantasy_,
      “between two and three thousand;” or indeed they are “upwards of
      six thousand,” for Peltier (in vision) saw them massacring the
      very patients of the Bicêtre Madhouse “with grape-shot;” nay
      finally they are “twelve thousand” and odd hundreds,—not more
      than that.[542] In Arithmetical ciphers, and Lists drawn up by
      accurate Advocate Maton, the number, including two hundred and
      two priests, three “persons unknown,” and “one thief killed at
      the Bernardins,” is, as above hinted, a Thousand and
      Eighty-nine,—no less than that.

      A thousand and eighty-nine lie dead, “two hundred and sixty
      heaped carcasses on the Pont au Change” itself;—among which,
      Robespierre pleading afterwards will “nearly weep” to reflect
      that there was said to be one slain innocent.[543] One; not two,
      O thou seagreen Incorruptible? If so, Themis Sansculotte must be
      lucky; for she was brief!—In the dim Registers of the Townhall,
      which are preserved to this day, men read, with a certain
      sickness of heart, items and entries not usual in Town Books: “To
      workers employed in preserving the salubrity of the air in the
      Prisons, and persons “who presided over these dangerous
      operations,” so much,—in various items, nearly seven hundred
      pounds sterling. To carters employed to “the Burying-grounds of
      Clamart, Montrouge, and Vaugirard,” at so much a journey, per
      cart; this also is an entry. Then so many francs and odd sous
      “for the necessary quantity of quick-lime!”[544] Carts go along
      the streets; full of stript human corpses, thrown pellmell; limbs
      sticking up:—seest thou that cold Hand sticking up, through the
      heaped embrace of brother corpses, in its yellow paleness, in its
      cold rigour; the palm opened towards Heaven, as if in dumb
      prayer, in expostulation _de profundis_, Take pity on the Sons of
      Men!—Mercier saw it, as he walked down “the Rue Saint-Jacques
      from Montrouge, on the morrow of the Massacres:” but not a Hand;
      it was a Foot,—which he reckons still more significant, one
      understands not well why. Or was it as the Foot of one _spurning_
      Heaven? Rushing, like a wild diver, in disgust and despair,
      towards the depths of Annihilation? Even there shall His hand
      find thee, and His right-hand hold thee,—surely for right not for
      wrong, for good not evil! “I saw that Foot,” says Mercier; “I
      shall know it again at the great Day of Judgment, when the
      Eternal, throned on his thunders, shall judge both Kings and
      Septemberers.”[545]

      That a shriek of inarticulate horror rose over this thing, not
      only from French Aristocrats and Moderates, but from all Europe,
      and has prolonged itself to the present day, was most natural and
      right. The thing lay done, irrevocable; a thing to be counted
      besides some other things, which lie very black in our Earth’s
      Annals, yet which will not erase therefrom. For man, as was
      remarked, has transcendentalisms in him; standing, as he does,
      poor creature, every way “in the confluence of Infinitudes;” a
      mystery to himself and others: in the centre of two Eternities,
      of three Immensities,—in the intersection of primeval Light with
      the everlasting dark! Thus have there been, especially by
      vehement tempers reduced to a state of desperation, very
      miserable things done. Sicilian Vespers, and “eight thousand
      slaughtered in two hours,” are a known thing. Kings themselves,
      not in desperation, but only in difficulty, have sat hatching,
      for year and day (nay De Thou says, for seven years), their
      Bartholomew Business; and then, at the right moment, also on an
      Autumn Sunday, this very Bell (they say it is the identical
      metal) of St. Germain l’Auxerrois was set a-pealing—with
      effect.[546] Nay the same black boulder-stones of these Paris
      Prisons have seen Prison-massacres before now; men massacring
      countrymen, Burgundies massacring Armagnacs, whom they had
      suddenly imprisoned, till as now there are piled heaps of
      carcasses, and the streets ran red;—the Mayor Pétion of the time
      speaking the austere language of the law, and answered by the
      Killers, in old French (it is some four hundred years old):
      ‘_Maugré bieu, Sire_,—Sir, God’s malison on your justice, your
      pity, your right reason. Cursed be of God whoso shall have pity
      on these false traitorous Armagnacs, English; dogs they are; they
      have destroyed us, wasted this realm of France, and sold it to
      the English.’[547] And so they slay, and fling aside the slain,
      to the extent of “fifteen hundred and eighteen, among whom are
      found four Bishops of false and damnable counsel, and two
      Presidents of Parlement.” For though it is not Satan’s world this
      that we live in, Satan always has his place in it (underground
      properly); and from time to time bursts up. Well may mankind
      shriek, inarticulately anathematising as they can. There are
      actions of such emphasis that no shrieking can be too emphatic
      for them. Shriek ye; acted have they.

      Shriek who might in this France, in this Paris Legislative or
      Paris Townhall, there are Ten Men who do not shriek. A Circular
      goes out from the Committee of _Salut Public_, dated 3rd of
      September 1792; directed to all Townhalls: a State-paper too
      remarkable to be overlooked. “A part of the ferocious
      conspirators detained in the Prisons,” it says, “have been put to
      death by the People; and it,” the Circular, “cannot doubt but the
      whole Nation, driven to the edge of ruin by such endless series
      of treasons, will make haste to adopt _this_ means of public
      salvation; and all Frenchmen will cry as the men of Paris: We go
      to fight the enemy, but we will not leave robbers behind us, to
      butcher our wives and children.” To which are legibly appended
      these signatures: Panis, Sergent; Marat, Friend of the
      People;[548] with Seven others;—carried down thereby, in a
      strange way, to the late remembrance of Antiquarians. We remark,
      however, that their Circular rather recoiled on themselves. The
      Townhalls made no use of it; even the distracted Sansculottes
      made little; they only howled and bellowed, but did not bite. At
      Rheims “about eight persons” were killed; and two afterwards were
      hanged for doing it. At Lyons, and a few other places, some
      attempt was made; but with hardly any effect, being quickly put
      down.

      Less fortunate were the Prisoners of Orléans; was the good Duke
      de la Rochefoucault. He journeying, by quick stages, with his
      Mother and Wife, towards the Waters of Forges, or some quieter
      country, was arrested at Gisors; conducted along the streets,
      amid effervescing multitudes, and killed dead “by the stroke of a
      paving-stone hurled through the coach-window.” Killed as a once
      Liberal now Aristocrat; Protector of Priests, Suspender of
      virtuous Pétions, and his unfortunate Hot-grown-cold, detestable
      to Patriotism. He dies lamented of Europe; his blood spattering
      the cheeks of his old Mother, ninety-three years old.

      As for the Orléans Prisoners, they are State Criminals: Royalist
      Ministers, Delessarts, Montmorins; who have been accumulating on
      the High Court of Orléans, ever since that Tribunal was set up.
      Whom now it seems good that we should get transferred to our new
      Paris Court of the Seventeenth; which proceeds far quicker.
      Accordingly hot Fournier from Martinique, Fournier _l’Americain_,
      is off, missioned by Constituted Authority; with stanch National
      Guards, with Lazouski the Pole; sparingly provided with
      road-money. These, through bad quarters, through difficulties,
      perils, for Authorities cross each other in this time,—do
      triumphantly bring off the Fifty or Fifty-three Orléans
      Prisoners, towards Paris; where a swifter Court of the
      Seventeenth will do justice on them.[549] But lo, at Paris, in
      the interim, a still swifter and swiftest Court of the _Second_,
      and of _September_, has instituted itself: enter not Paris, or
      that will judge you!—What shall hot Fournier do? It was his duty,
      as volunteer Constable, had he been a perfect character, to guard
      those men’s lives never so Aristocratic, at the expense of his
      own valuable life never so Sansculottic, till some Constituted
      Court had disposed of them. But he was an imperfect character and
      Constable; perhaps one of the more imperfect.

      Hot Fournier, ordered to turn thither by one Authority, to turn
      thither by another Authority, is in a perplexing multiplicity of
      orders; but finally he strikes off for Versailles. His Prisoners
      fare in tumbrils, or open carts, himself and Guards riding and
      marching around: and at the last village, the worthy Mayor of
      Versailles comes to meet him, anxious that the arrival and
      locking up were well over. It is Sunday, the ninth day of the
      month. Lo, on entering the Avenue of Versailles, what multitudes,
      stirring, swarming in the September sun, under the dull-green
      September foliage; the Four-rowed Avenue all humming and
      swarming, as if the Town had emptied itself! Our tumbrils roll
      heavily through the living sea; the Guards and Fournier making
      way with ever more difficulty; the Mayor speaking and gesturing
      his persuasivest; amid the inarticulate growling hum, which
      growls ever the deeper even by hearing itself growl, not without
      sharp yelpings here and there:—Would to God we were out of this
      strait place, and wind and separation had cooled the heat, which
      seems about igniting here!

      And yet if the wide Avenue is too strait, what will the Street
      _de Surintendance_ be, at leaving of the same? At the corner of
      Surintendance Street, the compressed yelpings became a continuous
      yell: savage figures spring on the tumbril-shafts; first spray of
      an endless coming tide! The Mayor pleads, pushes, half-desperate;
      is pushed, carried off in men’s arms: the savage tide has
      entrance, has mastery. Amid horrid noise, and tumult as of fierce
      wolves, the Prisoners sink massacred,—all but some eleven, who
      escaped into houses, and found mercy. The Prisons, and what other
      Prisoners they held, were with difficulty saved. The stript
      clothes are burnt in bonfire; the corpses lie heaped in the ditch
      on the morrow morning.[550] All France, except it be the Ten Men
      of the Circular and their people, moans and rages, inarticulately
      shrieking; all Europe rings.

      But neither did Danton shriek; though, as Minister of Justice, it
      was more his part to do so. Brawny Danton is in the breach, as of
      stormed Cities and Nations; amid the Sweep of Tenth-of-August
      cannon, the rustle of Prussian gallows-ropes, the smiting of
      September sabres; destruction all round him, and the rushing-down
      of worlds: Minister of Justice is his name; but Titan of the
      Forlorn Hope, and _Enfant Perdu_ of the Revolution, is his
      quality,—and the man acts according to that. ‘We must put our
      enemies in fear!’ Deep fear, is it not, as of its own accord,
      falling on our enemies? The Titan of the Forlorn Hope, he is not
      the man that would swiftest of all prevent its so falling.
      Forward, thou lost Titan of an _Enfant Perdu;_ thou must dare,
      and again dare, and without end dare; there is nothing left for
      thee but that! ‘_Que mon nom soit flétri_, Let my name be
      blighted:’ what am I? The Cause alone is great; and shall live,
      and not perish.—So, on the whole, here too is a swallower of
      Formulas; of still wider gulp than Mirabeau: this Danton,
      Mirabeau of the Sansculottes. In the September days, this
      Minister was not heard of as co-operating with strict Roland; his
      business might lie elsewhere,—with Brunswick and the
      Hôtel-de-Ville. When applied to by an official person, about the
      Orleans Prisoners, and the risks they ran, he answered gloomily,
      twice over, ‘Are not these men guilty?’—When pressed, he
      “answered in a terrible voice,” and turned his back.[551] Two
      Thousand slain in the Prisons; horrible if you will: but
      Brunswick is within a day’s journey of us; and there are Five-and
      twenty Millions yet, to slay or to save. Some men have
      tasks,—frightfuller than ours! It seems strange, but is not
      strange, that this Minister of Moloch-Justice, when any suppliant
      for a friend’s life got access to him, was found to have human
      compassion; and yielded and granted “always;” “neither did one
      personal enemy of Danton perish in these days.”[552]

      To shriek, we say, when certain things are acted, is proper and
      unavoidable. Nevertheless, articulate speech, not shrieking, is
      the faculty of man: when speech is not yet possible, let there
      be, with the shortest delay, at least—silence. Silence,
      accordingly, in this forty-fourth year of the business, and
      eighteen hundred and thirty-sixth of an “Era called Christian as
      _lucus à non_,” is the thing we recommend and practise. Nay,
      instead of shrieking more, it were perhaps edifying to remark, on
      the other side, what a singular thing Customs (in Latin, _Mores_)
      are; and how fitly the Virtue, _Vir-tus_, Manhood or Worth, that
      is in a man, is called his _Morality_, or _Customariness_. Fell
      Slaughter, one the most authentic products of the Pit you would
      say, once give it Customs, becomes War, with Laws of War; and is
      Customary and Moral enough; and red individuals carry the tools
      of it girt round their haunches, not without an air of
      pride,—which do thou nowise blame. While, see! so long as it is
      but dressed in hodden or russet; and Revolution, less frequent
      than War, has not yet got its Laws of Revolution, but the hodden
      or russet individuals are Uncustomary—O shrieking beloved brother
      blockheads of Mankind, let us close those wide mouths of ours;
      let us cease shrieking, and begin considering!


      Chapter 3.1.VII.
      September in Argonne.

      Plain, at any rate, is one thing: that the _fear_, whatever of
      fear those Aristocrat enemies might need, has been brought about.
      The matter is getting serious then! Sansculottism too has become
      a Fact, and seems minded to assert itself as such? This huge
      mooncalf of Sansculottism, staggering about, as young calves do,
      is not mockable only, and soft like another calf; but terrible
      too, if you prick it; and, through its hideous nostrils, blows
      fire!—Aristocrats, with pale panic in their hearts, fly towards
      covert; and a light rises to them over several things; or rather
      a confused transition towards light, whereby for the moment
      darkness is only darker than ever. But, What will become of this
      France? Here is a question! France is dancing its desert-waltz,
      as Sahara does when the winds waken; in whirlblasts twenty-five
      millions in number; waltzing towards Townhalls, Aristocrat
      Prisons, and Election Committee-rooms; towards Brunswick and the
      Frontiers;—towards a New Chapter of Universal History; if indeed
      it be not the _Finis_, and winding-up of that!

      In Election Committee-rooms there is now no dubiety; but the work
      goes bravely along. The Convention is getting chosen,—really in a
      decisive spirit; in the Townhall we already date _First year of
      the Republic_. Some Two hundred of our best Legislators may be
      re-elected, the Mountain bodily: Robespierre, with Mayor Pétion,
      Buzot, Curate Grégoire, Rabaut, some three score
      Old-Constituents; though we once had only “thirty voices.” All
      these; and along with them, friends long known to Revolutionary
      fame: Camille Desmoulins, though he stutters in speech; Manuel,
      Tallien and Company; Journalists Gorsas, Carra, Mercier, Louvet
      of _Faublas;_ Clootz Speaker of Mankind; Collot d’Herbois,
      tearing a passion to rags; Fabre d’Eglantine, speculative
      Pamphleteer; Legendre the solid Butcher; nay Marat, though rural
      France can hardly believe it, or even believe that there _is_ a
      Marat except in print. Of Minister Danton, who will lay down his
      Ministry for a Membership, we need not speak. Paris is fervent;
      nor is the Country wanting to itself. Barbaroux, Rebecqui, and
      fervid Patriots are coming from Marseilles. Seven hundred and
      forty-five men (or indeed forty-nine, for Avignon now sends Four)
      are gathering: so many are to meet; not so many are to part!

      Attorney Carrier from Aurillac, Ex-Priest Lebon from Arras, these
      shall both gain a _name_. Mountainous Auvergne re-elects her
      Romme: hardy tiller of the soil, once Mathematical Professor;
      who, unconscious, carries in petto a remarkable _New Calendar_,
      with Messidors, Pluvioses, and such like;—and having given it
      well forth, shall depart by the death they call Roman. Sieyes
      old-Constituent comes; to make new Constitutions as many as
      wanted: for the rest, peering out of his clear cautious eyes, he
      will cower low in many an emergency, and find silence safest.
      Young Saint-Just is coming, deputed by Aisne in the North; more
      like a Student than a Senator: not four-and-twenty yet; who has
      written Books; a youth of slight stature, with mild mellow voice,
      enthusiast olive-complexion, and long dark hair. Féraud, from the
      far valley D’Aure in the folds of the Pyrenees, is coming; an
      ardent Republican; doomed to fame, at least in death.

      All manner of Patriot men are coming: Teachers, Husbandmen,
      Priests and Ex-Priests, Traders, Doctors; above all, Talkers, or
      the Attorney-species. Man-midwives, as Levasseur of the Sarthe,
      are not wanting. Nor Artists: gross David, with the swoln cheek,
      has long painted, with genius in a state of convulsion; and will
      now legislate. The swoln cheek, choking his words in the birth,
      totally disqualifies him as orator; but his pencil, his head, his
      gross hot heart, with genius in a state of convulsion, will be
      there. A man bodily and mentally swoln-cheeked, disproportionate;
      flabby-large, instead of great; weak withal as in a state of
      convulsion, not strong in a state of composure: so let him play
      his part. Nor are naturalised Benefactors of the Species
      forgotten: Priestley, elected by the Orne Department, but
      declining: Paine the rebellious Needleman, by the Pas de Calais,
      who accepts.

      Few Nobles come, and yet not none. Paul François Barras, “noble
      as the Barrases, old as the rocks of Provence;” he is one. The
      reckless, shipwrecked man: flung ashore on the coast of the
      Maldives long ago, while sailing and soldiering as Indian
      Fighter; flung ashore since then, as hungry Parisian
      Pleasure-hunter and Half-pay, on many a Circe Island, with
      temporary enchantment, temporary conversion into beasthood and
      hoghood;—the remote Var Department has now sent him hither. A man
      of heat and haste; defective in utterance; defective indeed in
      any thing to utter; yet not without a certain rapidity of glance,
      a certain swift transient courage; who, in these times, Fortune
      favouring, may go far. He is tall, handsome to the eye, “only the
      complexion a little yellow;” but “with a robe of purple with a
      scarlet cloak and plume of tricolor, on occasions of solemnity,”
      the man will look well.[553] Lepelletier Saint-Fargeau,
      Old-Constituent, is a kind of noble, and of enormous wealth; he
      too has come hither:—to have the Pain of Death _abolished?_
      Hapless Ex-Parlementeer! Nay, among our Sixty Old-Constituents,
      see Philippe d’Orléans a Prince of the Blood! Not now
      _D’Orléans:_ for, Feudalism being swept from the world, he
      demands of his worthy friends the Electors of Paris, to have a
      new name of their choosing; whereupon Procureur Manuel, like an
      antithetic literary man, recommends _Equality_, Egalité. A
      Philippe Egalité therefore will sit; seen of the Earth and
      Heaven.

      Such a Convention is gathering itself together. Mere angry
      poultry in moulting season; whom Brunswick’s grenadiers and
      cannoneers will give short account of. Would the weather only
      mend a little![554]

      In vain, O Bertrand! The weather will not mend a whit:—nay even
      if it did? Dumouriez Polymetis, though Bertrand knows it not,
      started from brief slumber at Sedan, on that morning of the 29th
      of August; with stealthiness, with promptitude, audacity. Some
      three mornings after that, Brunswick, opening wide eyes,
      perceives the Passes of the Argonne all seized; blocked with
      felled trees, fortified with camps; and that it is a most shifty
      swift Dumouriez this, who has outwitted him!

      The manœuvre may cost Brunswick “a loss of three weeks,” very
      fatal in these circumstances. A Mountain-wall of forty miles
      lying between him and Paris: which he should have
      preoccupied;—which how now to get possession of? Also the rain it
      raineth every day; and we are in a hungry Champagne Pouilleuse, a
      land flowing only with ditch-water. How to cross this
      Mountain-wall of the Argonne; or what in the world to do with
      it?—there are marchings and wet splashings by steep paths, with
      _sackerments_ and guttural interjections; forcings of Argonne
      Passes,—which unhappily will not force. Through the woods,
      volleying War reverberates, like huge gong-music, or Moloch’s
      kettledrum, borne by the echoes; swoln torrents boil angrily
      round the foot of rocks, floating pale carcasses of men. In vain!
      Islettes Village, with its church-steeple, rises intact in the
      Mountain-pass, between the embosoming heights; your forced
      marchings and climbings have become forced slidings, and
      tumblings back. From the hill-tops thou seest nothing but dumb
      crags, and endless wet moaning woods; the Clermont _Vache_ (huge
      Cow that she is) disclosing herself[555] at intervals; flinging
      off her cloud-blanket, and soon taking it on again, drowned in
      the pouring Heaven. The Argonne Passes will not force: you must
      _skirt_ the Argonne; go round by the end of it.

      But fancy whether the Emigrant Seigneurs have not got their
      brilliancy dulled a little; whether that “Foot Regiment in
      red-facings with nankeen trousers” could be in field-day order!
      In place of gasconading, a sort of desperation, and hydrophobia
      from _excess_ of water, is threatening to supervene. Young Prince
      de Ligne, son of that brave literary De Ligne the Thundergod of
      Dandies, fell backwards; shot dead in Grand-Pré, the Northmost of
      the Passes: Brunswick is skirting and rounding, laboriously, by
      the extremity of the South. Four days; days of a rain as of
      Noah,—without fire, without food! For fire you cut down green
      trees, and produce smoke; for food you eat green grapes, and
      produce colic, pestilential dysentery, ὀλέκοντο δὲ λαοί. And the
      Peasants assassinate us, they do not join us; shrill women cry
      shame on us, threaten to draw their very scissors on us! O ye
      hapless dulled-bright Seigneurs, and hydrophobic splashed
      Nankeens;—but O, ten times more, ye poor _sackerment_ing
      ghastly-visaged Hessians and Hulans, fallen on your backs; who
      had no call to die there, except compulsion and three-halfpence
      a-day! Nor has Mrs. Le Blanc of the Golden Arm a good time of it,
      in her bower of dripping rushes. Assassinating Peasants are
      hanged; Old-Constituent Honourable members, though of venerable
      age, ride in carts with their hands tied; these are the woes of
      war.

      Thus they; sprawling and wriggling, far and wide, on the slopes
      and passes of the Argonne;—a loss to Brunswick of five-and-twenty
      disastrous days. There is wriggling and struggling; facing,
      backing, and right-about facing; as the positions shift, and the
      Argonne gets partly rounded, partly forced:—but still Dumouriez,
      force him, round him as you will, sticks like a rooted fixture on
      the ground; fixture with many _hinges;_ wheeling now this way,
      now that; shewing always new front, in the most unexpected
      manner: nowise consenting to take himself away. Recruits stream
      up on him: full of heart; yet rather difficult to deal with.
      Behind Grand-Pré, for example, Grand-Pré which is on the
      wrong-side of the Argonne, for we are now forced and rounded,—the
      full heart, in one of those wheelings and shewings of new front,
      did as it were overset itself, as full hearts are liable to do;
      and there rose a shriek of _sauve qui peut_, and a death-panic
      which had nigh ruined all! So that the General had to come
      galloping; and, with thunder-words, with gesture, stroke of drawn
      sword even, check and rally, and bring back the sense of
      shame;[556]—nay to seize the first shriekers and ringleaders;
      “shave their heads and eyebrows,” and pack them forth into the
      world as a sign. Thus too (for really the rations are short, and
      wet camping with hungry stomach brings bad humour) there is like
      to be mutiny. Whereupon again Dumouriez “arrives at the head of
      their line, with his staff, and an escort of a hundred huzzars.
      He had placed some squadrons behind them, the artillery in front;
      he said to them: ‘As for you, for I will neither call you
      citizens, nor soldiers, nor my men (_ni mes enfans_), you see
      before you this artillery, behind you this cavalry. You have
      dishonoured yourselves by crimes. If you amend, and grow to
      behave like this brave Army which you have the honour of
      belonging to, you will find in me a good father. But plunderers
      and assassins I do not suffer here. At the smallest mutiny I will
      have you shivered in pieces (_hacher en pièces_). Seek out the
      scoundrels that are among you, and dismiss them yourselves; I
      hold you responsible for them.’”[557]

      Patience, O Dumouriez! This uncertain heap of shriekers,
      mutineers, were they once drilled and inured, will become a
      phalanxed mass of Fighters; and wheel and whirl, to order,
      swiftly like the wind or the whirlwind: tanned mustachio-figures;
      often barefoot, even bare-backed; with sinews of iron; who
      require only bread and gunpowder: very Sons of Fire, the
      adroitest, hastiest, hottest ever seen perhaps since Attila’s
      time. They may conquer and overrun amazingly, much as that same
      Attila did;—whose Attila’s-Camp and Battlefield thou now seest,
      on this very ground;[558] who, after sweeping bare the world,
      was, with difficulty, and days of tough fighting, checked _here_
      by Roman Ætius and Fortune; and his dust-cloud made to vanish in
      the East again!—

      Strangely enough, in this shrieking Confusion of a Soldiery,
      which we saw long since fallen all suicidally out of square in
      suicidal collision,—at Nanci, or on the streets of Metz, where
      brave Bouillé stood with drawn sword; and which has collided and
      ground itself to pieces worse and worse ever since, down now to
      such a state: in this shrieking Confusion, and not elsewhere,
      lies the first germ of returning Order for France! Round which,
      we say, poor France nearly all ground down suicidally likewise
      into rubbish and Chaos, will be glad to rally; to begin growing,
      and new-shaping her inorganic dust: very slowly, through
      centuries, through Napoleons, Louis Philippes, and other the like
      media and phases,—into a new, infinitely preferable France, we
      can hope!—

      These wheelings and movements in the region of the Argonne, which
      are all faithfully described by Dumouriez himself, and more
      interesting to us than Hoyle’s or Philidor’s best Game of Chess,
      let us, nevertheless, O Reader, entirely omit;—and hasten to
      remark two things: the first a minute private, the second a large
      public thing. Our minute private thing is: the presence, in the
      Prussian host, in that war-game of the Argonne, of a certain Man,
      belonging to the sort called Immortal; who, in days since then,
      is becoming visible more and more, in that character, as the
      Transitory more and more vanishes; for from of old it was
      remarked that when the Gods appear among men, it is seldom in
      recognisable shape; thus Admetus“ neatherds give Apollo a draught
      of their goatskin whey-bottle (well if they do not give him
      strokes with their ox-rungs), not dreaming that he is the Sungod!
      This man’s name is _Johann Wolfgang von Goethe_. He is Herzog
      Weimar’s Minister, come with the small contingent of Weimar; to
      do insignificant unmilitary duty here; very irrecognizable to
      nearly all! He stands at present, with drawn bridle, on the
      height near Saint-Menehould, making an experiment on the
      “cannon-fever;” having ridden thither against persuasion, into
      the dance and firing of the cannon-balls, with a scientific
      desire to understand what that same cannon-fever may be: “The
      sound of them,” says he, “is curious enough; as if it were
      compounded of the humming of tops, the gurgling of water and the
      whistle of birds. By degrees you get a very uncommon sensation;
      which can only be described by similitude. It seems as if you
      were in some place extremely hot, and at the same time were
      completely penetrated by the heat of it; so that you feel as if
      you and this element you are in were perfectly on a par. The
      eyesight loses nothing of its strength or distinctness; and yet
      it is as if all things had got a kind of brown-red colour, which
      makes the situation and the objects still more impressive on
      you.”[559]

      This is the cannon-fever, as a World-Poet feels it.—A man
      entirely irrecognisable! In whose irrecognisable head, meanwhile,
      there verily is the spiritual counterpart (and call it
      complement) of this same huge Death-Birth of the World; which now
      effectuates itself, outwardly in the Argonne, in such
      cannon-thunder; inwardly, in the irrecognisable head, quite
      otherwise than by thunder! Mark that man, O Reader, as the
      memorablest of all the memorable in this Argonne Campaign. What
      we say of him is not dream, nor flourish of rhetoric; but
      scientific historic fact; as many men, now at this distance, see
      or begin to see.

      But the large public thing we had to remark is this: That the
      Twentieth of September, 1792, was a raw morning covered with
      mist; that from three in the morning Sainte-Menehould, and those
      Villages and homesteads we know of old were stirred by the rumble
      of artillery-wagons, by the clatter of hoofs, and many footed
      tramp of men: all manner of military, Patriot and Prussian,
      taking up positions, on the Heights of La Lune and other Heights;
      shifting and shoving,—seemingly in some dread chess-game; which
      may the Heavens turn to good! The Miller of Valmy has fled dusty
      under ground; his Mill, were it never so windy, will have rest
      today. At seven in the morning the mist clears off: see
      Kellermann, Dumouriez’ second in command, with “eighteen pieces
      of cannon,” and deep-serried ranks, drawn up round that same
      silent Windmill, on his knoll of strength; Brunswick, also, with
      serried ranks and cannon, glooming over to him from the height of
      La Lune; only the little brook and its little dell now parting
      them.

      So that the much-longed-for has come at last! Instead of hunger
      and dysentery, we shall have sharp shot; and then!—Dumouriez,
      with force and firm front, looks on from a neighbouring height;
      can help only with his wishes, in silence. Lo, the eighteen
      pieces do bluster and bark, responsive to the bluster of La Lune;
      and thunder-clouds mount into the air; and echoes roar through
      all dells, far into the depths of Argonne Wood (deserted now);
      and limbs and lives of men fly dissipated, this way and that. Can
      Brunswick make an impression on them? The dull-bright Seigneurs
      stand biting their thumbs: these Sansculottes seem not to fly
      like poultry! Towards noontide a cannon-shot blows Kellermann’s
      horse from under him; there bursts a powder-cart high into the
      air, with knell heard over all: some swagging and swaying
      observable;—Brunswick will try! ‘_Camarades_,’ cries Kellermann,
      ‘_Vive la Patrie! Allons vaincre pour elle_, Let us conquer.’
      ‘Live the Fatherland!’ rings responsive, to the welkin, like
      rolling-fire from side to side: our ranks are as firm as rocks;
      and Brunswick may _re_cross the dell, ineffectual; regain his old
      position on La Lune; not unbattered by the way. And so, for the
      length of a September day,—with bluster and bark; with bellow far
      echoing! The cannonade lasts till sunset; and no impression made.
      Till an hour after sunset, the few remaining Clocks of the
      District striking Seven; at this late time of day Brunswick tries
      again. With not a whit better fortune! He is met by rock-ranks,
      by shouts of _Vive la Patrie;_ and driven back, not unbattered.
      Whereupon he ceases; retires “to the Tavern of La Lune;” and sets
      to raising a redoute lest _he_ be attacked!

      Verily so: ye dulled-bright Seigneurs, make of it what ye may.
      Ah, and France does not rise round us in mass; and the Peasants
      do not join us, but assassinate us: neither hanging nor any
      persuasion will induce them! They have lost their old
      distinguishing love of King, and King’s-cloak,—I fear,
      altogether; and will even fight to be rid of it: that seems now
      their humour. Nor does Austria prosper, nor the siege of
      Thionville. The Thionvillers, carrying their insolence to the
      epigrammatic pitch, have put a Wooden Horse on their walls, with
      a bundle of hay hung from him, and this Inscription: “When I
      finish my hay, you will take Thionville.”[560] To such height has
      the frenzy of mankind risen.

      The trenches of Thionville may shut: and what though those of
      Lille open? The Earth smiles not on us, nor the Heaven; but weeps
      and blears itself, in sour rain, and worse. Our very friends
      insult us; we are wounded in the house of our friends: ‘His
      Majesty of Prussia had a greatcoat, when the rain came; and
      (contrary to all known laws) he put it on, though our two French
      Princes, the hope of their country, had none!’ To which indeed,
      as Goethe admits, what answer could be made?[561]—Cold and Hunger
      and Affront, Colic and Dysentery and Death; and we here, cowering
      _redouted_, most unredoubtable, amid the “tattered corn-shocks
      and deformed stubble,” on the splashy Height of La Lune, round
      the mean Tavern de La Lune!—

      This is the Cannonade of Valmy; wherein the World-Poet
      experimented on the cannon-fever; wherein the French Sansculottes
      did not fly like poultry. Precious to France! Every soldier did
      his duty, and Alsatian Kellermann (how preferable to old Lückner
      the dismissed!) began to become greater; and _Égalité Fils_,
      Equality Junior, a light gallant Field-Officer, distinguished
      himself by intrepidity:—it is the same intrepid individual who
      now, as Louis-Philippe, without the Equality, struggles, under
      sad circumstances, to be called King of the French for a season.


      Chapter 3.1.VIII.
      Exeunt.

      But this Twentieth of September is otherwise a great day. For,
      observe, while Kellermann’s horse was flying blown from under him
      at the Mill of Valmy, our new National Deputies, that shall be a
      NATIONAL CONVENTION, are hovering and gathering about the Hall of
      the Hundred Swiss; with intent to constitute themselves!

      On the morrow, about noontide, Camus the Archivist is busy
      “verifying their powers;” several hundreds of them already here.
      Whereupon the Old Legislative comes solemnly over, to merge its
      old ashes phœnix-like in the body of the new;—and so forthwith,
      returning all solemnly back to the Salle de Manége, there sits a
      National Convention, Seven Hundred and Forty-nine complete, or
      complete enough; presided by Pétion;—which proceeds directly to
      do business. Read that reported afternoon’s-debate, O Reader;
      there are few debates like it: dull reporting _Moniteur_ itself
      becomes more dramatic than a very Shakespeare. For epigrammatic
      Manuel rises, speaks strange things; how the President shall have
      a guard of honour, and lodge in the Tuileries:—_rejected_. And
      Danton rises and speaks; and Collot d’Herbois rises, and Curate
      Gregoire, and lame Couthon of the Mountain rises; and in rapid
      Melibœan stanzas, only a few lines each, they propose motions not
      a few: That the corner-stone of our new Constitution is
      Sovereignty of the People; that our Constitution shall be
      accepted by the People or be null; further that the People ought
      to be avenged, and have right Judges; that the Imposts must
      continue till new order; that Landed and other Property be sacred
      forever; finally that “Royalty from this day is abolished in
      France:”—_Decreed_ all, before four o’clock strike, with
      acclamation of the world![562] The tree was all so ripe; only
      shake it and there fall such yellow cart-loads.

      And so over in the Valmy Region, as soon as the news come, what
      stir is this, audible, visible from our muddy heights of La
      Lune?[563] Universal shouting of the French on their opposite
      hillside; caps raised on bayonets; and a sound as of _République;
      Vive la République_ borne dubious on the winds!—On the morrow
      morning, so to speak, Brunswick slings his knapsacks before day,
      lights any fires he has; and marches without tap of drum.
      Dumouriez finds ghastly symptoms in that camp; “_latrines_ full
      of blood!”[564] The chivalrous King of Prussia, for he as we saw
      is here in person, may long rue the day; may look colder than
      ever on these dulled-bright Seigneurs, and French Princes their
      Country’s hope;—and, on the whole, put on his great-coat without
      ceremony, happy that he has one. They retire, all retire with
      convenient despatch, through a Champagne trodden into a quagmire,
      the wild weather pouring on them; Dumouriez through his
      Kellermanns and Dillons pricking them a little in the hinder
      parts. A little, not much; now pricking, now negotiating: for
      Brunswick has his eyes opened; and the Majesty of Prussia is a
      repentant Majesty.

      Nor has Austria prospered, nor the Wooden Horse of Thionville
      bitten his hay; nor Lille City surrendered itself. The Lille
      trenches opened, on the 29th of the month; with balls and shells,
      and redhot balls; as if not trenches but Vesuvius and the Pit had
      opened. It was frightful, say all eye-witnesses; but it is
      ineffectual. The Lillers have risen to such temper; especially
      after these news from Argonne and the East. Not a
      Sans-indispensables in Lille that would surrender for a King’s
      ransom. Redhot balls rain, day and night; “six-thousand,” or so,
      and bombs “filled internally with oil of turpentine which
      splashes up in flame;”—mainly on the dwellings of the
      Sansculottes and Poor; the streets of the Rich being spared. But
      the Sansculottes get water-pails; form quenching-regulations,
      ‘The ball is in Peter’s house!’ ‘The ball is in John’s!’ They
      divide their lodging and substance with each other; shout _Vive
      la République_; and faint not in heart. A ball thunders through
      the main chamber of the Hôtel-de-Ville, while the Commune is
      there assembled: ‘We are in permanence,’ says one, coldly,
      proceeding with his business; and the ball remains permanent too,
      sticking in the wall, probably to this day.[565]

      The Austrian Archduchess (Queen’s Sister) will herself see red
      artillery fired; in their over-haste to satisfy an Archduchess
      “two mortars explode and kill thirty persons.” It is in vain;
      Lille, often burning, is always quenched again; Lille will not
      yield. The very boys deftly wrench the matches out of fallen
      bombs: “a man clutches a rolling ball with his hat, which takes
      fire; when cool, they crown it with a _bonnet rouge_.” Memorable
      also be that nimble Barber, who when the bomb burst beside him,
      snatched up a shred of it, introduced soap and lather into it,
      crying, ‘_Voilà mon plat à barbe_, My new shaving-dish!’ and
      shaved “fourteen people” on the spot. Bravo, thou nimble Shaver;
      worthy to shave old spectral Redcloak, and find treasures!—On the
      eighth day of this desperate siege, the sixth day of October,
      Austria finding it fruitless, draws off, with no pleasurable
      consciousness; rapidly, Dumouriez tending thitherward; and Lille
      too, black with ashes and smoulder, but jubilant skyhigh, flings
      its gates open. The _Plat à barbe_ became fashionable; “no
      Patriot of an elegant turn,” says Mercier several years
      afterwards, “but shaves himself out of the splinter of a Lille
      bomb.”

      _Quid multa_, Why many words? The Invaders are in flight;
      Brunswick’s Host, the third part of it gone to death, staggers
      disastrous along the deep highways of Champagne; spreading out
      also into “the fields, of a tough spongy red-coloured clay;—like
      Pharaoh through a Red Sea of mud,” says Goethe; “for he also lay
      broken chariots, and riders and foot seemed sinking around.”[566]
      On the eleventh morning of October, the World-Poet, struggling
      Northwards out of Verdun, which he had entered Southwards, some
      five weeks ago, in quite other order, discerned the following
      Phenomenon and formed part of it:

      “Towards three in the morning, without having had any sleep, we
      were about mounting our carriage, drawn up at the door; when an
      insuperable obstacle disclosed itself: for there rolled on
      already, between the pavement-stones which were crushed up into a
      ridge on each side, an uninterrupted column of sick-wagons
      through the Town, and all was trodden as into a morass. While we
      stood waiting what could be made of it, our Landlord the Knight
      of Saint-Louis pressed past us, without salutation.” He had been
      a Calonne’s Notable in 1787, an Emigrant since; had returned to
      his home, jubilant, with the Prussians; but must now forth again
      into the wide world, “followed by a servant carrying a little
      bundle on his stick.

      “The activity of our alert Lisieux shone eminent; and, on this
      occasion too, brought us on: for he struck into a small gap of
      the wagon-row; and held the advancing team back till we, with our
      six and our four horses, got intercalated; after which, in my
      light little coachlet, I could breathe freer. We were now under
      way; at a funeral pace, but still under way. The day broke; we
      found ourselves at the outlet of the Town, in a tumult and
      turmoil without measure. All sorts of vehicles, few horsemen,
      innumerable foot-people, were crossing each other on the great
      esplanade before the Gate. We turned to the right, with our
      Column, towards Estain, on a limited highway, with ditches at
      each side. Self-preservation, in so monstrous a press, knew now
      no pity, no respect of aught. Not far before us there fell down a
      horse of an ammunition-wagon: they cut the traces, and let it
      lie. And now as the three others could not bring their load
      along, they cut them also loose, tumbled the heavy-packed vehicle
      into the ditch; and, with the smallest retardation, we had to
      drive on, right over the horse, which was just about to rise; and
      I saw too clearly how its legs, under the wheels, went crashing
      and quivering.

      “Horse and foot endeavoured to escape from the narrow laborious
      highway into the meadows: but these too were rained to ruin;
      overflowed by full ditches, the connexion of the footpaths every
      where interrupted. Four gentlemanlike, handsome, well-dressed
      French soldiers waded for a time beside our carriage; wonderfully
      clean and neat: and had such art of picking their steps, that
      their foot-gear testified no higher than the ancle to the muddy
      pilgrimage these good people found themselves engaged in.

      “That under such circumstances one saw, in ditches, in meadows,
      in fields and crofts, dead horses enough, was natural to the
      case: by and by, however, you found them also flayed, the fleshy
      parts even cut away; sad token of the universal distress.

      “Thus we fared on; every moment in danger, at the smallest
      stoppage on our own part, of being ourselves tumbled overboard;
      under which circumstances, truly, the careful dexterity of our
      Lisieux could not be sufficiently praised. The same talent shewed
      itself at Estain; where we arrived towards noon; and descried,
      over the beautiful well-built little Town, through streets and on
      squares, around and beside us, one sense-confusing tumult: the
      mass rolled this way and that; and, all struggling forward, each
      hindered the other. Unexpectedly our carriage drew up before a
      stately house in the market-place; master and mistress of the
      mansion saluted us in reverent distance.” Dexterous Lisieux,
      though we knew it not, had said we were the King of Prussia’s
      Brother!

      “But now, from the ground-floor windows, looking over the whole
      market-place, we had the endless tumult lying, as it were,
      palpable. All sorts of walkers, soldiers in uniform, marauders,
      stout but sorrowing citizens and peasants, women and children,
      crushed and jostled each other, amid vehicles of all forms:
      ammunition-wagons, baggage-wagons; carriages, single, double, and
      multiplex; such hundredfold miscellany of teams, requisitioned or
      lawfully owned, making way, hitting together, hindering each
      other, rolled here to right and to left. Horned-cattle too were
      struggling on; probably herds that had been put in requisition.
      Riders you saw few; but the elegant carriages of the Emigrants,
      many-coloured, lackered, gilt and silvered, evidently by the best
      builders, caught your eye.[567]

      “The crisis of the strait however arose further on a little;
      where the crowded market-place had to introduce itself into a
      street,—straight indeed and good, but proportionably far too
      narrow. I have, in my life, seen nothing like it: the aspect of
      it might perhaps be compared to that of a swoln river which has
      been raging over meadows and fields, and is now again obliged to
      press itself through a narrow bridge, and flow on in its bounded
      channel. Down the long street, all visible from our windows,
      there swelled continually the strangest tide: a high
      double-seated travelling-coach towered visible over the flood of
      things. We thought of the fair Frenchwomen we had seen in the
      morning. It was not they, however, it was Count Haugwitz; him you
      could look at, with a kind of sardonic malice, rocking onwards,
      step by step, there.”[568]

      In such untriumphant Procession has the Brunswick Manifesto
      issued! Nay in worse, “in Negotiation with these miscreants,”—the
      first news of which produced such a revulsion in the Emigrant
      nature, as put our scientific World-Poet “in fear for the wits of
      several.”[569] There is no help: they must fare on, these poor
      Emigrants, angry with all persons and things, and making all
      persons angry, in the hapless course they struck into. Landlord
      and landlady testify to you, at _tables-d’hôte_, how
      insupportable these Frenchmen are: how, in spite of such
      humiliation, of poverty and probable beggary, there is ever the
      same struggle for precedence, the same forwardness, and want of
      discretion. High in honour, at the head of the table, you with
      your own eyes observe not a Seigneur but the automaton of a
      Seigneur, fallen into dotage; still worshipped, reverently waited
      on, and fed. In miscellaneous seats, is a miscellany of soldiers,
      commissaries, adventurers; consuming silently their barbarian
      victuals. “On all brows is to be read a hard destiny; all are
      silent, for each has his own sufferings to bear, and looks forth
      into misery without bounds.” One hasty wanderer, coming in, and
      eating without ungraciousness what is set before him, the
      landlord lets off almost scot-free. ‘He is,’ whispered the
      landlord to me, ‘the first of these cursed people I have seen
      condescend to taste our German black bread.’[570]

      And Dumouriez is in Paris; lauded and feasted; paraded in
      glittering saloons, floods of beautifullest blond-dresses and
      broadcloth-coats flowing past him, endless, in admiring joy. One
      night, nevertheless, in the splendour of one such scene, he sees
      himself suddenly apostrophised by a squalid unjoyful Figure, who
      has come in _un_invited, nay despite of all lackeys; an unjoyful
      Figure! The Figure is come ‘in express mission from the
      Jacobins,’ to inquire sharply, better then than later, touching
      certain things: ‘Shaven eyebrows of Volunteer Patriots, for
      instance?’ Also ‘your threats of shivering in pieces?’ Also, ‘why
      you have not chased Brunswick hotly enough?’ Thus, with sharp
      croak, inquires the Figure.—‘_Ah, c’est vous qu’on appelle
      Marat_, You are he they call Marat!’ answers the General, and
      turns coldly on his heel.[571]—‘Marat!’ The blonde-gowns quiver
      like aspens; the dress-coats gather round; Actor Talma (for it is
      his house), and almost the very chandelier-lights, are blue: till
      this obscene Spectrum, or visual Appearance, vanish back into
      native Night.

      General Dumouriez, in few brief days, is gone again, towards the
      Netherlands; will attack the Netherlands, winter though it be.
      And General Montesquiou, on the South-East, has driven in the
      Sardinian Majesty; nay, almost without a shot fired, has taken
      Savoy from him, which longs to become a piece of the Republic.
      And General Custine, on the North-East, has dashed forth on
      Spires and its Arsenal; and then on Electoral Mentz, not
      uninvited, wherein are German Democrats and no shadow of an
      Elector now:—so that in the last days of October, Frau Forster, a
      daughter of Heyne’s, somewhat democratic, walking out of the Gate
      of Mentz with her Husband, finds French Soldiers playing at bowls
      with cannon-balls there. Forster trips cheerfully over one iron
      bomb, with ‘Live the Republic!’ A black-bearded National Guard
      answers: ‘_Elle vivra bien sans vous_, It will probably live
      independently of you!’[572]


      BOOK 3.II.
      REGICIDE


      Chapter 3.2.I.
      The Deliberative.

      France therefore has done two things very completely: she has
      hurled back her Cimmerian Invaders far over the marches; and
      likewise she has shattered her own internal Social Constitution,
      even to the minutest fibre of it, into wreck and dissolution.
      Utterly it is all altered: from King down to Parish Constable,
      all Authorities, Magistrates, Judges, persons that bore rule,
      have had, on the sudden, to alter themselves, so far as needful;
      or else, on the sudden, and not without violence, to be altered:
      a Patriot “Executive Council of Ministers,” with a Patriot Danton
      in it, and then a whole Nation and National Convention, have
      taken care of that. Not a Parish Constable, in the furthest
      hamlet, who has said _De Par le Roi_, and shewn loyalty, but must
      retire, making way for a new improved Parish Constable who can
      say _De par la République._

      It is a change such as History must beg her readers to imagine,
      _un_described. An instantaneous change of the whole body-politic,
      the soul-politic being all changed; such a change as few bodies,
      politic or other, can experience in this world. Say perhaps, such
      as poor Nymph Semele’s body did experience, when she would needs,
      with woman’s humour, see her Olympian Jove as very Jove;—and so
      stood, poor Nymph, this moment Semele, next moment not Semele,
      but Flame and a Statue of red-hot Ashes! France has looked upon
      Democracy; seen it face to face.—The Cimmerian Invaders will
      rally, in humbler temper, with better or worse luck: the wreck
      and dissolution must reshape itself into a social Arrangement as
      it can and may. But as for this National Convention, which is to
      settle every thing, if it do, as Deputy Paine and France
      generally expects, get all finished “in a few months,” we shall
      call it a most deft Convention.

      In truth, it is very singular to see how this mercurial French
      People plunges suddenly from _Vive le Roi_ to _Vive la
      République;_ and goes simmering and dancing; shaking off daily
      (so to speak), and trampling into the dust, its old social
      garnitures, ways of thinking, rules of existing; and cheerfully
      dances towards the Ruleless, Unknown, with such hope in its
      heart, and nothing but _Freedom, Equality and Brotherhood_ in its
      mouth. Is it two centuries, or is it only two years, since all
      France roared simultaneously to the welkin, bursting forth into
      sound and smoke at its _Feast of Pikes_, ‘Live the Restorer of
      French Liberty?’ Three short years ago there was still Versailles
      and an Œil-de-Bœuf: now there is that watched Circuit of the
      Temple, girt with dragon-eyed Municipals, where, as in its final
      limbo, Royalty lies extinct. In the year 1789, Constituent Deputy
      Barrère “wept,” in his _Break-of-Day_ Newspaper, at sight of a
      reconciled King Louis; and now in 1792, Convention Deputy
      Barrère, perfectly tearless, may be considering, whether the
      reconciled King Louis shall be guillotined or not.

      Old garnitures and social vestures drop off (we say) so fast,
      being indeed quite decayed, and are trodden under the National
      dance. And the new vestures, where are they; the new modes and
      rules? Liberty, Equality, Fraternity: not vestures but the wish
      for vestures! The Nation is for the present, figuratively
      speaking, _naked!_ It has no rule or vesture; but is naked,—a
      Sansculottic Nation.

      So far, therefore, in such manner have our Patriot Brissots,
      Guadets triumphed. Vergniaud’s Ezekiel-visions of the fall of
      thrones and crowns, which he spake hypothetically and
      prophetically in the Spring of the year, have suddenly come to
      fulfilment in the Autumn. Our eloquent Patriots of the
      Legislative, like strong Conjurors, by the word of their mouth,
      have swept Royalism with its old modes and formulas to the winds;
      and shall now govern a France free of formulas. Free of formulas!
      And yet man lives not except with formulas; with customs, _ways_
      of doing and living: no text truer than this; which will hold
      true from the Tea-table and Tailor’s shopboard up to the High
      Senate-houses, Solemn Temples; nay through all provinces of Mind
      and Imagination, onwards to the outmost confines of articulate
      Being,—_Ubi homines sunt modi sunt._ There are modes wherever
      there are men. It is the deepest law of man’s nature; whereby man
      is a craftsman and “tool-using animal;” not the slave of Impulse,
      Chance, and Brute Nature, but in some measure their lord.
      Twenty-five millions of men, suddenly stript bare of their
      _modi_, and dancing them down in that manner, are a terrible
      thing to govern!

      Eloquent Patriots of the Legislative, meanwhile, have precisely
      this problem to solve. Under the name and nickname of “statesmen,
      _hommes d’état_,” of “moderate-men, _modérantins_,” of
      Brissotins, Rolandins, finally of _Girondins_, they shall become
      world-famous in solving it. For the Twenty-five millions are
      Gallic effervescent too;—filled both with hope of the
      unutterable, of universal Fraternity and Golden Age; and with
      terror of the unutterable, Cimmerian Europe all rallying on us.
      It is a problem like few. Truly, if man, as the Philosophers
      brag, did to any extent look before and after, what, one may ask,
      in many cases would become of him? What, in this case, would
      become of these Seven Hundred and Forty-nine men? The Convention,
      seeing clearly before and after, were a paralysed Convention.
      Seeing clearly to the length of its own nose, it is not
      paralysed.

      To the Convention itself neither the work nor the method of doing
      it is doubtful: To make the Constitution; to defend the Republic
      till that be made. Speedily enough, accordingly, there has been a
      “Committee of the Constitution” got together. Sieyes,
      Old-Constituent, Constitution-builder by trade; Condorcet, fit
      for better things; Deputy Paine, foreign Benefactor of the
      Species, with that “red carbuncled face, and the black beaming
      eyes;” Hérault de Séchelles, Ex-Parlementeer, one of the
      handsomest men in France: these, with inferior guild-brethren,
      are girt cheerfully to the work; will once more “make the
      Constitution;” let us hope, more effectually than last time. For
      that the Constitution can be made, who doubts,—unless the Gospel
      of Jean Jacques came into the world in vain? True, our last
      Constitution did tumble within the year, so lamentably. But what
      then, except sort the rubbish and boulders, and build them up
      again better? “Widen your basis,” for one thing,—to Universal
      Suffrage, if need be; exclude rotten materials, Royalism and such
      like, for another thing. And in brief, _build_, O unspeakable
      Sieyes and Company, unwearied! Frequent perilous downrushing of
      scaffolding and rubble-work, be that an irritation, no
      discouragement. Start ye always again, clearing aside the wreck;
      if with broken limbs, yet with whole hearts; and build, we say,
      in the name of Heaven,—till either the work do stand; or else
      mankind abandon it, and the Constitution-builders be paid off,
      with laughter and tears! One good time, in the course of
      Eternity, it was appointed that this of Social Contract too
      should try itself out. And so the Committee of Constitution shall
      toil: with hope and faith;—with no disturbance from any reader of
      these pages.

      To make the Constitution, then, and return home joyfully in a few
      months: this is the prophecy our National Convention gives of
      itself; by this scientific program shall its operations and
      events go on. But from the best scientific program, in such a
      case, to the actual fulfilment, what a difference! Every reunion
      of men, is it not, as we often say, a reunion of incalculable
      Influences; every unit of it a microcosm of Influences;—of which
      how shall Science calculate or prophesy! Science, which cannot,
      with all its calculuses, differential, integral, and of
      variations, calculate the Problem of Three gravitating Bodies,
      ought to hold her peace here, and say only: In this National
      Convention there are Seven Hundred and Forty-nine very singular
      Bodies, that gravitate and do much else;—who, probably in an
      amazing manner, will work the appointment of Heaven.

      Of National Assemblages, Parliaments, Congresses, which have long
      sat; which are of saturnine temperament; above all, which are not
      “dreadfully in earnest,” something may be computed or
      conjectured: yet even these are a kind of Mystery in
      progress,—whereby we see the Journalist Reporter find livelihood:
      even these jolt madly out of the ruts, from time to time. How
      much more a poor National Convention, of French vehemence; urged
      on at such velocity; without routine, without rut, track or
      landmark; and dreadfully in earnest every man of them! It is a
      Parliament literally such as there was never elsewhere in the
      world. Themselves are new, unarranged; they are the Heart and
      presiding centre of a France fallen wholly into maddest
      disarrangement. From all cities, hamlets, from the utmost ends of
      this France with its Twenty-five million vehement souls,
      thick-streaming influences storm in on that same Heart, in the
      Salle de Manége, and storm out again: such fiery venous-arterial
      circulation is the function of that Heart. Seven Hundred and
      Forty-nine human individuals, we say, never sat together on
      Earth, under more original circumstances. Common individuals most
      of them, or not far from common; yet in virtue of the position
      they occupied, so notable. How, in this wild piping of the
      whirlwind of human passions, with death, victory, terror, valour,
      and all height and all depth pealing and piping, these men, left
      to their own guidance, will speak and act?

      Readers know well that this French National Convention (quite
      contrary to its own Program) became the astonishment and horror
      of mankind; a kind of Apocalyptic Convention, or black _Dream
      become real;_ concerning which History seldom speaks except in
      the way of interjection: how it covered France with woe,
      delusion, and delirium; and from its bosom there went forth Death
      on the pale Horse. To hate this poor National Convention is easy;
      to praise and love it has not been found impossible. It is, as we
      say, a Parliament in the most original circumstances. To us, in
      these pages, be it as a fuliginous fiery mystery, where Upper has
      met Nether, and in such alternate glare and blackness of darkness
      poor bedazzled mortals know not which is Upper, which is Nether;
      but rage and plunge distractedly, as mortals, in that case, will
      do. A Convention which has to consume itself, suicidally; and
      become dead ashes—with its World! Behoves us, not to enter
      exploratively its dim embroiled deeps; yet to stand with
      unwavering eyes, looking how it welters; what notable phases and
      occurrences it will successively throw up.

      One general superficial circumstance we remark with praise: the
      force of Politeness. To such depth has the sense of civilisation
      penetrated man’s life; no Drouet, no Legendre, in the maddest tug
      of war, can altogether shake it off. Debates of Senates
      dreadfully in earnest are seldom given frankly to the world; else
      perhaps they would surprise it. Did not the Grand Monarque
      himself once chase his Louvois with a pair of brandished tongs?
      But reading long volumes of these Convention Debates, all in a
      foam with furious earnestness, earnest many times to the extent
      of life and death, one is struck rather with the degree of
      continence they manifest in speech; and how in such wild
      ebullition, there is still a kind of polite rule struggling for
      mastery, and the forms of social life never altogether disappear.
      These men, though they menace with clenched right-hands, do not
      clench one another by the collar; they draw no daggers, except
      for oratorical purposes, and this not often: profane swearing is
      almost unknown, though the Reports are frank enough; we find only
      one or two oaths, oaths by Marat, reported in all.

      For the rest, that there is “effervescence” who doubts?
      Effervescence enough; Decrees passed by acclamation today,
      repealed by vociferation tomorrow; temper fitful, most rotatory
      changeful, always headlong! The “voice of the orator is covered
      with rumours;” a hundred “honourable Members rush with menaces
      towards the Left side of the Hall;” President has “broken three
      bells in succession,”—claps on his hat, as signal that the
      country is near ruined. A fiercely effervescent Old-Gallic
      Assemblage!—Ah, how the loud sick sounds of Debate, and of Life,
      which is a _debate_, sink silent one after another: so loud now,
      and in a little while so low! Brennus, and those antique Gael
      Captains, in their way to Rome, to Galatia, and such places,
      whither they were in the habit of marching in the most fiery
      manner, had Debates as effervescent, doubt it not; though no
      _Moniteur_ has reported them. They scolded in Celtic Welsh, those
      Brennuses; neither were they Sansculotte; nay rather breeches
      (_braccæ_, say of felt or rough-leather) were the only thing they
      had; being, as Livy testifies, naked down _to_ the haunches:—and,
      see, it is the same sort of work and of men still, now when they
      have got coats, and speak nasally a kind of broken Latin! But on
      the whole does not TIME envelop this present National Convention;
      as it did those Brennuses, and ancient August Senates in felt
      breeches? Time surely; and also Eternity. Dim dusk of Time,—or
      noon which will be dusk; and then there is night, and silence;
      and Time with all its sick noises is swallowed in the still sea.
      Pity thy brother, O Son of Adam! The angriest frothy jargon that
      he utters, is it not properly the whimpering of an infant which
      cannot _speak_ what ails it, but is in distress clearly, in the
      inwards of it; and so must squall and whimper continually, till
      its Mother take it, and it get—to sleep!

      This Convention is not four days old, and the melodious Melibœan
      stanzas that shook down Royalty are still fresh in our ear, when
      there bursts out a new diapason,—unhappily, of Discord, this
      time. For speech has been made of a thing difficult to speak of
      well: the September Massacres. How deal with these September
      Massacres; with the Paris Commune that presided over them? A
      Paris Commune hateful-terrible; before which the poor effete
      Legislative had to quail, and sit quiet. And now if a young
      omnipotent Convention will not so quail and sit, what steps shall
      it take? Have a Departmental Guard in its pay, answer the
      Girondins, and Friends of Order! A Guard of National Volunteers,
      missioned from all the Eighty-three or Eighty-five Departments,
      for that express end; these will keep Septemberers, tumultuous
      Communes in a due state of submissiveness, the Convention in a
      due state of sovereignty. So have the Friends of Order answered,
      sitting in Committee, and reporting; and even a Decree has been
      passed of the required tenour. Nay certain Departments, as the
      Var or Marseilles, in mere expectation and assurance of a Decree,
      have their contingent of Volunteers already on march: brave
      Marseillese, foremost on the Tenth of August, will not be
      hindmost here; “fathers gave their sons a musket and twenty-five
      louis,” says Barbaroux, “and bade them march.”

      Can any thing be properer? A Republic that will found itself on
      justice must needs investigate September Massacres; a Convention
      calling itself National, ought it not to be guarded by a National
      force?—Alas, Reader, it seems so to the eye: and yet there is
      much to be said and argued. Thou beholdest here the small
      beginning of a Controversy, which mere logic will not settle. Two
      small well-springs, September, Departmental Guard, or rather at
      bottom they are but one and the same small well-spring; which
      will swell and widen into waters of bitterness; all manner of
      subsidiary streams and brooks of bitterness flowing in, from this
      side and that; till it become a wide river of bitterness, of rage
      and separation,—which can subside only into the Catacombs. This
      Departmental Guard, decreed by overwhelming majorities, and then
      repealed for peace’s sake, and not to insult Paris, is again
      decreed more than once; nay it is partially executed, and the
      very men that are to be of it are seen visibly parading the Paris
      streets,—shouting once, being overtaken with liquor: ‘_À bas
      Marat_, Down with Marat!’[573] Nevertheless, decreed never so
      often, it is repealed just as often; and continues, for some
      seven months, an angry noisy Hypothesis only: a fair Possibility
      struggling to become a Reality, but which shall never be one;
      which, after endless struggling, shall, in February next, sink
      into sad rest,—dragging much along with it. So singular are the
      ways of men and honourable Members.

      But on this fourth day of the Convention’s existence, as we said,
      which is the 25th of September 1792, there comes Committee Report
      on that Decree of the Departmental Guard, and speech of repealing
      it; there come denunciations of anarchy, of a Dictatorship,—which
      let the incorruptible Robespierre consider: there come
      denunciations of a certain _Journal de la République_, once
      called _Ami du Peuple;_ and so thereupon there comes, visibly
      stepping up, visibly standing aloft on the Tribune, ready to
      speak, the Bodily Spectrum of People’s-Friend Marat! Shriek, ye
      Seven Hundred and Forty-nine; it is verily Marat, he and not
      another. Marat is no phantasm of the brain, or mere lying impress
      of Printer’s Types; but a thing material, of joint and sinew, and
      a certain small stature: ye behold him there, in his blackness in
      his dingy squalor, a living fraction of Chaos and Old Night;
      visibly incarnate, desirous to speak. ‘It appears,’ says Marat to
      the shrieking Assembly, ‘that a great many persons here are
      enemies of mine.’ ‘All! All!’ shriek hundreds of voices: enough
      to drown any People’s-Friend. But Marat will not drown: he speaks
      and croaks explanation; croaks with such reasonableness, air of
      sincerity, that repentant pity smothers anger, and the shrieks
      subside or even become applauses. For this Convention is
      unfortunately the crankest of machines: it shall be pointing
      eastward, with stiff violence, this moment; and then do but touch
      some spring dexterously, the whole machine, clattering and
      jerking seven-hundred-fold, will whirl with huge crash, and, next
      moment, is pointing westward! Thus Marat, absolved and applauded,
      victorious in this turn of fence, is, as the Debate goes on,
      prickt at again by some dexterous Girondin; and then the shrieks
      rise anew, and Decree of Accusation is on the point of passing;
      till the dingy People’s-Friend bobs aloft once more; croaks once
      more persuasive stillness, and the Decree of Accusation sinks,
      Whereupon he draws forth—a Pistol; and setting it to his Head,
      the seat of such thought and prophecy, says: ‘If they had passed
      their Accusation Decree, he, the People’s-Friend, would have
      blown his brains out.’ A People’s Friend has that faculty in him.
      For the rest, as to this of the two hundred and sixty thousand
      Aristocrat Heads, Marat candidly says, ‘_C’est là mon avis_, such
      is my opinion.’ Also it is not indisputable: ‘No power on Earth
      can prevent me from seeing into traitors, and unmasking them,’—by
      my superior originality of mind?[574] An honourable member like
      this Friend of the People few terrestrial Parliaments have had.

      We observe, however, that this first onslaught by the Friends of
      Order, as sharp and prompt as it was, has failed. For neither can
      Robespierre, summoned out by talk of Dictatorship, and greeted
      with the like rumour on shewing himself, be thrown into Prison,
      into Accusation;—not though Barbaroux openly bear testimony
      against him, and sign it on paper. With such sanctified meekness
      does the Incorruptible lift his seagreen cheek to the smiter;
      lift his thin voice, and with jesuitic dexterity plead, and
      prosper: asking at last, in a prosperous manner: ‘But what
      witnesses has the Citoyen Barbaroux to support his testimony?’
      ‘_Moi!_’ cries hot Rebecqui, standing up, striking his breast
      with both hands, and answering, ‘Me!’[575] Nevertheless the
      Seagreen pleads again, and makes it good: the long hurlyburly,
      “personal merely,” while so much public matter lies fallow, has
      ended in the order of the day. O Friends of the Gironde, why will
      you occupy our august sessions with mere paltry Personalities,
      while the grand Nationality lies in such a state?—The Gironde has
      touched, this day, on the foul black-spot of its fair Convention
      Domain; has trodden on it, and yet _not_ trodden it down. Alas,
      it is a _well-spring_, as we said, this black-spot; and will not
      tread down!


      Chapter 3.2.II.
      The Executive.

      May we not conjecture therefore that round this grand enterprise
      of Making the Constitution there will, as heretofore, very
      strange embroilments gather, and questions and interests
      complicate themselves; so that after a few or even several
      months, the Convention will not have settled every thing? Alas, a
      whole tide of questions comes rolling, boiling; growing ever
      wider, without end! Among which, apart from this question of
      September and Anarchy, let us notice those, which emerge oftener
      than the others, and promise to become Leading Questions: of the
      Armies; of the Subsistences; thirdly, of the Dethroned King.

      As to the Armies, Public Defence must evidently be put on a
      proper footing; for Europe seems coalising itself again; one is
      apprehensive even England will join it. Happily Dumouriez
      prospers in the North;—nay what if he should prove too
      prosperous, and become _Liberticide_, Murderer of
      Freedom!—Dumouriez prospers, through this winter season; yet not
      without lamentable complaints. Sleek Pache, the Swiss
      Schoolmaster, he that sat frugal in his Alley, the wonder of
      neighbours, has got lately—whither thinks the Reader? To be
      Minister of war! Madame Roland, struck with his sleek ways,
      recommended him to her Husband as Clerk: the sleek Clerk had no
      need of salary, being of true Patriotic temper; he would come
      with a bit of bread in his pocket, to save dinner and time; and,
      munching incidentally, do three men’s work in a day, punctual,
      silent, frugal,—the sleek Tartuffe that he was. Wherefore Roland,
      in the late Overturn, recommended him to be War-Minister. And
      now, it would seem, he is secretly undermining Roland; playing
      into the hands of your hotter Jacobins and September Commune; and
      cannot, like strict Roland, be the _Veto des Coquins!_[576]

      How the sleek Pache might mine and undermine, one knows not well;
      this however one does know: that his War-Office has become a den
      of thieves and confusion, such as all men shudder to behold. That
      the Citizen Hassenfratz, as Head-Clerk, sits there in _bonnet
      rouge_, in rapine, in violence, and some Mathematical
      calculation; a most insolent, red-nightcapped man. That Pache
      munches his pocket-loaf, amid head-clerks and sub-clerks, and has
      spent all the War-Estimates: that Furnishers scour in gigs, over
      all districts of France, and drive bargains;—and lastly that the
      Army gets next to no furniture. No shoes, though it is winter; no
      clothes; some have not even arms: “In the Army of the South,”
      complains an honourable Member, “there are thirty thousand pairs
      of breeches wanting,”—a most scandalous want.

      Roland’s strict soul is sick to see the course things take: but
      what can he do? Keep his own Department strict; rebuke, and
      repress wheresoever possible; at lowest, complain. He can
      complain in Letter after Letter, to a National Convention, to
      France, to Posterity, the Universe; grow ever more querulous
      indignant;—till at last may he not grow wearisome? For is not
      this continual text of his, at bottom a rather barren one: How
      astonishing that in a time of Revolt and abrogation of all Law
      but Cannon Law, there should be such Unlawfulness? Intrepid
      Veto-of-Scoundrels, narrow-faithful, respectable, methodic man,
      work thou in that manner, since happily it is thy manner, and
      wear thyself away; though ineffectual, not profitless in it—then
      nor _now!_—The brave Dame Roland, bravest of all French women,
      begins to have misgivings: the figure of Danton has too much of
      the “Sardanapalus character,” at a Republican Rolandin
      Dinner-table: Clootz, Speaker of Mankind, proses sad stuff about
      a Universal Republic, or union of all Peoples and Kindreds in one
      and the same Fraternal Bond; of which Bond, how it is to be
      _tied_, one unhappily sees not.

      It is also an indisputable, unaccountable or accountable fact
      that Grains are becoming scarcer and scarcer. Riots for grain,
      tumultuous Assemblages demanding to have the price of grain fixed
      abound far and near. The Mayor of Paris and other poor Mayors are
      like to have their difficulties. Pétion was re-elected Mayor of
      Paris; but has declined; being now a Convention Legislator. Wise
      surely to decline: for, besides this of Grains and all the rest,
      there is in these times an Improvised insurrectionary Commune
      passing into an Elected legal one; getting their accounts
      settled,—not without irritancy! Pétion has declined: nevertheless
      many do covet and canvass. After months of scrutinising,
      balloting, arguing and jargoning, one Doctor Chambon gets the
      post of honour: who will not long keep it; but be, as we shall
      see, literally _crushed_ out of it.[577]

      Think also if the private Sansculotte has not his difficulties,
      in a time of dearth! Bread, according to the People’s-Friend, may
      be some “six sous per pound, a day’s wages some fifteen;” and
      grim winter here. How the Poor Man continues living, and so
      seldom starves, by miracle! Happily, in these days, he can
      enlist, and have himself shot by the Austrians, in an unusually
      satisfactory manner: for the Rights of Man.—But Commandant
      Santerre, in this so straitened condition of the flour-market,
      and state of Equality and Liberty, proposes, through the
      Newspapers, two remedies, or at least palliatives: _First_, that
      all classes of men should live, two days of the week, on
      potatoes; then _second_, that every man should hang his dog.
      Hereby, as the Commandant thinks, the saving, which indeed he
      computes to so many sacks, would be very considerable. A
      cheerfuller form of inventive-stupidity than Commandant
      Santerre’s dwells in no human soul. Inventive-stupidity, imbedded
      in health, courage and good-nature: much to be commended. ‘My
      whole strength,’ he tells the Convention once, ‘is, day and
      night, at the service of my fellow-Citizens: if they find me
      worthless, they will dismiss me; I will return and brew
      beer.’[578]

      Or figure what correspondences a poor Roland, Minister of the
      Interior, must have, on this of Grains alone! Free-trade in
      Grain, impossibility to fix the Prices of Grain; on the other
      hand, clamour and necessity to fix them: Political Economy
      lecturing from the Home Office, with demonstration clear as
      Scripture;—ineffectual for the empty National Stomach. The Mayor
      of Chartres, like to be eaten himself, cries to the Convention:
      the Convention sends honourable Members in Deputation; who
      endeavour to feed the multitude by miraculous spiritual methods;
      but cannot. The multitude, in spite of all Eloquence, come
      bellowing round; will have the Grain-Prices fixed, and at a
      moderate elevation; or else—the honourable Deputies hanged on the
      spot! The honourable Deputies, reporting this business, admit
      that, on the edge of horrid death, they did fix, or affect to fix
      the Price of Grain: for which, be it also noted, the Convention,
      a Convention that will not be trifled with, sees good to
      reprimand them.[579]

      But as to the origin of these Grain Riots, is it not most
      probably your secret Royalists again? Glimpses of Priests were
      discernible in this of Chartres,—to the eye of Patriotism. Or
      indeed may not “the root of it all lie in the Temple Prison, in
      the heart of a perjured King,” well as we guard him?[580] Unhappy
      perjured King!—And so there shall be Baker’s Queues, by and by,
      more sharp-tempered than ever: on every Baker’s door-rabbet an
      iron ring, and coil of rope; whereon, with firm grip, on this
      side and that, we form our Queue: but mischievous deceitful
      persons cut the rope, and our Queue becomes a ravelment;
      wherefore the coil must be made of iron chain.[581] Also there
      shall be Prices of Grain well fixed; but then no grain
      purchasable by them: bread not to be had except by Ticket from
      the Mayor, few ounces per mouth daily; after long swaying, with
      firm grip, on the chain of the Queue. And Hunger shall stalk
      direful; and Wrath and Suspicion, whetted to the Preternatural
      pitch, shall stalk;—as those other preternatural “shapes of Gods
      in their wrathfulness” were discerned stalking, “in glare and
      gloom of that fire-ocean,” when Troy Town fell!—


      Chapter 3.2.III.
      Discrowned.

      But the question more pressing than all on the Legislator, as
      yet, is this third: What shall be done with King Louis?

      King Louis, now King and Majesty to his own family alone, in
      their own Prison Apartment alone, has been Louis Capet and the
      Traitor Veto with the rest of France. Shut in his Circuit of the
      Temple, he has heard and seen the loud whirl of things; yells of
      September Massacres, Brunswick war-thunders dying off in disaster
      and discomfiture; he passive, a spectator merely;—waiting whither
      it would please to whirl with him. From the neighbouring windows,
      the curious, not without pity, might see him walk daily, at a
      certain hour, in the Temple Garden, with his Queen, Sister and
      two Children, all that now belongs to him in this Earth.[582]
      Quietly he walks and waits; for he is not of lively feelings, and
      is of a devout heart. The wearied Irresolute has, at least, no
      need of resolving now. His daily meals, lessons to his Son, daily
      walk in the Garden, daily game at ombre or drafts, fill up the
      day: the morrow will provide for itself.

      The morrow indeed; and yet How? Louis asks, How? France, with
      perhaps still more solicitude, asks, How? A King dethroned by
      insurrection is verily not easy to dispose of. Keep him prisoner,
      he is a secret centre for the Disaffected, for endless plots,
      attempts and hopes of theirs. Banish him, he is an open centre
      for them; his royal war-standard, with what of divinity it has,
      unrolls itself, summoning the world. Put him to death? A cruel
      questionable extremity that too: and yet the likeliest in these
      extreme circumstances, of insurrectionary men, whose own life and
      death lies staked: accordingly it is said, from the last step of
      the throne to the first of the scaffold there is short distance.

      But, on the whole, we will remark here that this business of
      Louis looks altogether different now, as seen over Seas and at
      the distance of forty-four years, than it looked then, in France,
      and struggling, confused all round one! For indeed it is a most
      lying thing that same Past Tense always: so beautiful, sad,
      almost Elysian-sacred, “in the moonlight of Memory,” it seems;
      and _seems_ only. For observe: always, one most important element
      is surreptitiously (we not noticing it) withdrawn from the Past
      Time: the haggard element of Fear! Not _there_ does Fear dwell,
      nor Uncertainty, nor Anxiety; but it dwells _here;_ haunting us,
      tracking us; running like an accursed ground-discord through all
      the music-tones of our Existence;—making the Tense a mere Present
      one! Just so is it with this of Louis. Why smite the fallen? asks
      Magnanimity, out of danger now. He is fallen so low this
      once-high man; no criminal nor traitor, how far from it; but the
      unhappiest of Human Solecisms: whom if abstract Justice had to
      pronounce upon, she might well become concrete Pity, and
      pronounce only sobs and dismissal!

      So argues retrospective Magnanimity: but Pusillanimity, present,
      prospective? Reader, thou hast never lived, for months, under the
      rustle of Prussian gallows-ropes; never wert thou portion of a
      National Sahara-waltz, Twenty-five millions running distracted to
      fight Brunswick! Knights Errant themselves, when they conquered
      Giants, usually slew the Giants: quarter was only for other
      Knights Errant, who knew courtesy and the laws of battle. The
      French Nation, in simultaneous, desperate dead-pull, and as if by
      miracle of madness, has pulled down the most dread Goliath, huge
      with the growth of ten centuries; and cannot believe, though his
      giant bulk, covering acres, lies prostrate, bound with peg and
      packthread, that he will not rise again, man-devouring; that the
      victory is not partly a dream. Terror has its scepticism;
      miraculous victory its rage of vengeance. Then as to criminalty,
      is the prostrated Giant, who will devour us if he rise, an
      innocent Giant? Curate Gregoire, who indeed is now Constitutional
      Bishop Gregoire, asserts, in the heat of eloquence, that Kingship
      by the very nature of it is a crime capital; that Kings’ Houses
      are as wild-beasts’ dens.[583] Lastly consider this: that there
      is on record a Trial of Charles First! This printed _Trial of
      Charles First_ is sold and read every where at
      present:[584]—_Quelle spectacle!_ Thus did the English People
      judge their Tyrant, and become the first of Free Peoples: which
      feat, by the grace of Destiny, may not France now rival?
      Scepticism of terror, rage of miraculous victory, sublime
      spectacle to the universe,—all things point one fatal way.

      Such leading questions, and their endless incidental ones: of
      September Anarchists and Departmental Guard; of Grain Riots,
      plaintiff Interior Ministers; of Armies, Hassenfratz
      dilapidations; and what is to be done with Louis,—beleaguer and
      embroil this Convention; which would so gladly make the
      Constitution rather. All which questions too, as we often urge of
      such things, are in _growth;_ they grow in every French head; and
      can be _seen_ growing also, very curiously, in this mighty welter
      of Parliamentary Debate, of Public Business which the Convention
      has to do. A question emerges, so small at first; is put off,
      submerged; but always re-emerges bigger than before. It is a
      curious, indeed an indescribable sort of growth which such things
      have.

      We perceive, however, both by its frequent re-emergence and by
      its rapid enlargement of bulk, that this Question of King Louis
      will take the lead of all the rest. And truly, in that case, it
      will take the _lead_ in a much deeper sense. For as Aaron’s Rod
      swallowed all the other Serpents; so will the Foremost Question,
      whichever may get foremost, absorb all other questions and
      interests; and from it and the decision of it will they all, so
      to speak, be _born_, or new-born, and have shape, physiognomy and
      destiny corresponding. It was appointed of Fate that, in this
      wide-weltering, strangely growing, monstrous stupendous imbroglio
      of Convention Business, the grand First-Parent of all the
      questions, controversies, measures and enterprises which were to
      be evolved there to the world’s astonishment, should be this
      Question of King Louis.


      Chapter 3.2.IV.
      The Loser Pays.

      The Sixth of November, 1792, was a great day for the Republic:
      outwardly, over the Frontiers; inwardly, in the _Salle de
      Manége_.

      Outwardly: for Dumouriez, overrunning the Netherlands, did, on
      that day, come in contact with Saxe-Teschen and the Austrians;
      Dumouriez wide-winged, they wide-winged; at and around the
      village of Jemappes, near Mons. And fire-hail is whistling far
      and wide there, the great guns playing, and the small; so many
      green Heights getting fringed and maned with red Fire. And
      Dumouriez is swept back on this wing, and swept back on that, and
      is like to be swept back utterly; when he rushes up in person,
      the prompt Polymetis; speaks a prompt word or two; and then, with
      clear tenor-pipe, “uplifts the Hymn of the Marseillese, _entonna
      la Marseillaise_,”[585] ten thousand tenor or bass pipes joining;
      or say, some Forty Thousand in all; for every heart leaps at the
      sound: and so with rhythmic march-melody, waxing ever quicker, to
      double and to treble quick, they rally, they advance, they rush,
      death-defying, man-devouring; carry batteries, redoutes,
      whatsoever is to be carried; and, like the fire-whirlwind, sweep
      all manner of Austrians from the scene of action. Thus, through
      the hands of Dumouriez, may Rouget de Lille, in figurative
      speech, be said to have gained, miraculously, like another
      Orpheus, by his Marseillese fiddle-strings (_fidibus canoris_) a
      Victory of Jemappes; and conquered the Low Countries.

      Young General Egalité, it would seem, shone brave among the
      bravest on this occasion. Doubtless a brave Egalité;—whom however
      does not Dumouriez rather talk of oftener than need were? The
      Mother Society has her own thoughts. As for the Elder Egalité he
      flies low at this time; appears in the Convention for some
      half-hour daily, with rubicund, pre-occupied, or impressive
      quasi-contemptuous countenance; and then takes himself away.[586]
      The Netherlands are conquered, at least overrun. Jacobin
      missionaries, your Prolys, Pereiras, follow in the train of the
      Armies; also Convention Commissioners, melting church-plate,
      revolutionising and remodelling—among whom Danton, in brief
      space, does immensities of business; not neglecting his own wages
      and trade-profits, it is thought. Hassenfratz dilapidates at
      home; Dumouriez grumbles and they dilapidate abroad: within the
      walls there is sinning, and without the walls there is sinning.

      But in the Hall of the Convention, at the same hour with this
      victory of Jemappes, there went another thing forward: Report, of
      great length, from the proper appointed Committee, on the Crimes
      of Louis. The Galleries listen breathless; take comfort, ye
      Galleries: Deputy Valazé, Reporter on this occasion, thinks Louis
      very criminal; and that, if convenient, he should be tried;—poor
      Girondin Valazé, who may be tried himself, one day! Comfortable
      so far. Nay here comes a second Committee-reporter, Deputy
      Mailhe, with a Legal Argument, very prosy to read now, very
      refreshing to hear then, That, by the Law of the Country, Louis
      Capet was only called Inviolable by a figure of rhetoric; but at
      bottom was perfectly violable, triable; that he can, and even
      should be tried. This Question of Louis, emerging so often as an
      angry confused possibility, and submerging again, has emerged now
      in an articulate shape.

      Patriotism growls indignant joy. The so-called reign of Equality
      is not to be a mere name, then, but a thing! Try Louis Capet?
      scornfully ejaculates Patriotism: Mean criminals go to the
      gallows for a purse cut; and this chief criminal, guilty of a
      France cut; of a France slashed asunder with Clotho-scissors and
      Civil war; with his victims “twelve hundred on the Tenth of
      August alone” lying low in the Catacombs, fattening the passes of
      Argonne Wood, of Valmy and far Fields; _he_, such chief criminal,
      shall not even come to the bar?—For, alas, O Patriotism! add we,
      it was from of old said, _The loser pays!_ It is he who has to
      pay _all_ scores, run up by whomsoever; on him must all breakages
      and charges fall; and the twelve hundred on the Tenth of August
      are not rebel traitors, but victims and martyrs: such is the law
      of quarrel.

      Patriotism, nothing doubting, watches over this Question of the
      Trial, now happily emerged in an articulate shape; and will see
      it to maturity, if the gods permit. With a keen solicitude
      Patriotism watches; getting ever keener, at every new difficulty,
      as Girondins and false brothers interpose delays; till it get a
      keenness as of fixed-idea, and will have this Trial and no
      earthly thing instead of it,—if Equality be not a name. Love of
      Equality; then scepticism of terror, rage of victory, sublime
      spectacle of the universe: all these things are strong.

      But indeed this Question of the Trial, is it not to all persons a
      most grave one; filling with dubiety many a Legislative head!
      Regicide? asks the Gironde Respectability: To kill a king, and
      become the horror of respectable nations and persons? But then
      also, to save a king; to lose one’s footing with the decided
      Patriot; and undecided Patriot, though never so respectable,
      being mere hypothetic froth and no footing?—The dilemma presses
      sore; and between the horns of it you wriggle round and round.
      Decision is nowhere, save in the Mother Society and her Sons.
      These have decided, and go forward: the others wriggle round
      uneasily within their dilemma-horns, and make way nowhither.


      Chapter 3.2.V.
      Stretching of Formulas.

      But how this Question of the Trial grew laboriously, through the
      weeks of gestation, now that it has been articulated or
      conceived, were superfluous to trace here. It emerged and
      submerged among the infinite of questions and embroilments. The
      Veto of Scoundrels writes plaintive Letters as to Anarchy;
      “concealed Royalists,” aided by Hunger, produce Riots about
      Grain. Alas, it is but a week ago, these Girondins made a new
      fierce onslaught on the September Massacres!

      For, one day, among the last of October, Robespierre, being
      summoned to the tribune by some new hint of that old calumny of
      the Dictatorship, was speaking and pleading there, with more and
      more comfort to himself; till, rising high in heart, he cried out
      valiantly: Is there any man here that dare specifically accuse
      me? ‘_Moi!_’ exclaimed one. Pause of deep silence: a lean angry
      little Figure, with broad bald brow, strode swiftly towards the
      tribune, taking papers from its pocket: ‘I accuse thee,
      Robespierre,’—I, Jean Baptiste Louvet! The Seagreen became
      tallow-green; shrinking to a corner of the tribune: Danton cried,
      ‘Speak, Robespierre, there are many good citizens that listen;’
      but the tongue refused its office. And so Louvet, with a shrill
      tone, read and recited crime after crime: dictatorial temper,
      exclusive popularity, bullying at elections, mob-retinue,
      September Massacres;—till all the Convention shrieked again, and
      had almost indicted the Incorruptible there on the spot. Never
      did the Incorruptible run such a risk. Louvet, to his dying day,
      will regret that the Gironde did not take a bolder attitude, and
      extinguish him there and then.

      Not so, however: the Incorruptible, about to be indicted in this
      sudden manner, could not be refused a week of delay. That week,
      he is not idle; nor is the Mother Society idle,—fierce-tremulous
      for her chosen son. He is ready at the day with his written
      Speech; smooth as a Jesuit Doctor’s; and convinces some. And now?
      Why, now lazy Vergniaud does not rise with Demosthenic thunder;
      poor Louvet, unprepared, can do little or nothing: Barrère
      proposes that these comparatively despicable “personalities” be
      dismissed by order of the day! Order of the day it accordingly
      is. Barbaroux cannot even get a hearing; not though he rush down
      to the Bar, and demand to be heard there as a petitioner.[587]
      The convention, eager for public business (with that first
      articulate emergence of the Trial just coming on), dismisses
      these comparative _misères_ and despicabilities: splenetic Louvet
      must digest his spleen, regretfully for ever: Robespierre, dear
      to Patriotism, is dearer for the dangers he has run.

      This is the second grand attempt by our Girondin Friends of
      Order, to extinguish that black-spot in their domain; and we see
      they have made it far blacker and wider than before! Anarchy,
      September Massacre: it is a thing that lies hideous in the
      general imagination; very detestable to the undecided Patriot, of
      Respectability: a thing to be harped on as often as need is. Harp
      on it, denounce it, trample it, ye Girondin Patriots:—and yet
      behold, the black-spot will not trample down; it will only, as we
      say, trample blacker and wider: fools, it is no black-spot of the
      surface, but a well-spring of the deep! Consider rightly, it is
      the apex of the everlasting Abyss, this black-spot, looking up as
      water through thin ice;—say, as the region of Nether Darkness
      through your thin film of Gironde Regulation and Respectability;
      trample it _not_, lest the film break, and then—!

      The truth is, if our Gironde Friends had an understanding of it,
      where were French Patriotism, with all its eloquence, at this
      moment, had _not_ that same great Nether Deep, of Bedlam,
      Fanaticism and Popular wrath and madness, risen unfathomable on
      the Tenth of August? French Patriotism were an eloquent
      Reminiscence; swinging on Prussian gibbets. Nay, where, in few
      months, were it still, should the same great Nether Deep
      subside?—Nay, as readers of Newspapers pretend to recollect, this
      hatefulness of the September Massacre is itself partly an
      after-thought: readers of Newspapers can quote Gorsas and various
      Brissotins approving of the September Massacre, at the time it
      happened; and calling it a salutary vengeance![588] So that the
      real grief, after all, were not so much righteous horror, as
      grief that one’s own power was departing? Unhappy Girondins!

      In the Jacobin Society, therefore, the decided Patriot complains
      that here are men who with their private ambitions and
      animosities, will ruin Liberty, Equality, and Brotherhood, all
      three: they check the spirit of Patriotism, throw
      stumbling-blocks in its way; and instead of pushing on, all
      shoulders at the wheel, will stand idle there, spitefully
      clamouring what foul ruts there are, what rude jolts we give! To
      which the Jacobin Society answers with angry roar;—with angry
      shriek, for there are Citoyennes too, thick crowded in the
      galleries here. Citoyennes who bring their seam with them, or
      their knitting-needles; and shriek or knit as the case needs;
      famed _Tricoteuses_, Patriot Knitters;—_Mère Duchesse_, or the
      like Deborah and Mother of the Faubourgs, giving the keynote. It
      is a changed Jacobin Society; and a still changing. Where Mother
      Duchess now sits, authentic Duchesses have sat. High-rouged dames
      went once in jewels and spangles; now, instead of jewels, you may
      take the knitting-needles and leave the rouge: the rouge will
      gradually give place to natural brown, clean washed or even
      unwashed; and Demoiselle Théroigne herself get scandalously
      fustigated. Strange enough: it is the same tribune raised in
      mid-air, where a high Mirabeau, a high Barnave and Aristocrat
      Lameths once thundered: whom gradually your Brissots, Guadets,
      Vergniauds, a hotter style of Patriots in _bonnet rouge_, did
      displace; red heat, as one may say, superseding light. And now
      your Brissots in turn, and Brissotins, Rolandins, Girondins, are
      becoming supernumerary; must desert the sittings, or be expelled:
      the light of the Mighty Mother is burning not red but
      blue!—Provincial Daughter-Societies loudly disapprove these
      things; loudly demand the swift reinstatement of such eloquent
      Girondins, the swift “erasure of Marat, _radiation de Marat_.”
      The Mother Society, so far as natural reason can predict, seems
      ruining herself. Nevertheless she has, at all crises, seemed so;
      she has a _preter_natural life in her, and will not ruin.

      But, in a fortnight more, this great Question of the Trial, while
      the fit Committee is assiduously but silently working on it,
      receives an unexpected stimulus. Our readers remember poor
      Louis’s turn for smithwork: how, in old happier days, a certain
      Sieur Gamain of Versailles was wont to come over, and instruct
      him in lock-making;—often scolding him, they say for his
      numbness. By whom, nevertheless, the royal Apprentice had learned
      something of that craft. Hapless Apprentice; perfidious
      Master-Smith! For now, on this 20th of November 1792, dingy Smith
      Gamain comes over to the Paris Municipality, over to Minister
      Roland, with hints that he, Smith Gamain, knows a thing; that, in
      May last, when traitorous Correspondence was so brisk, he and the
      royal Apprentice fabricated an “Iron Press, _Armoire de Fer_,”
      cunningly inserting the same in a wall of the royal chamber in
      the Tuileries; invisible under the wainscot; where doubtless it
      still sticks! Perfidious Gamain, attended by the proper
      Authorities, finds the wainscot panel which none else can find;
      wrenches it up; discloses the Iron Press,—full of Letters and
      Papers! Roland clutches them out; conveys them over in towels to
      the fit assiduous Committee, which sits hard by. In towels, we
      say, and without notarial inventory; an oversight on the part of
      Roland.

      Here, however, are Letters enough: which disclose to a
      demonstration the Correspondence of a traitorous self-preserving
      Court; and this not with Traitors only, but even with Patriots,
      so-called! Barnave’s treason, of Correspondence with the Queen,
      and friendly advice to her, ever since that Varennes Business, is
      hereby manifest: how happy that we have him, this Barnave, lying
      safe in the Prison of Grenoble, since September last, for he had
      long been suspect! Talleyrand’s treason, many a man’s treason, if
      not manifest hereby, is next to it. Mirabeau’s treason: wherefore
      his Bust in the Hall of the Convention “is veiled with gauze,”
      till we ascertain. Alas, it is too ascertainable! His Bust in the
      Hall of the Jacobins, denounced by Robespierre from the tribune
      in mid-air, is not veiled, it is instantly broken to sherds; a
      Patriot mounting swiftly with a ladder, and shivering it down on
      the floor;—it and others: amid shouts.[589] Such is _their_
      recompense and amount of wages, at this date: on the principle of
      supply and demand! Smith Gamain, inadequately recompensed for the
      present, comes, some fifteen months after, with a humble
      Petition; setting forth that no sooner was that important Iron
      Press finished off by him, than (as he now bethinks himself)
      Louis gave him a large glass of wine. Which large glass of wine
      did produce in the stomach of Sieur Gamain the terriblest
      effects, evidently tending towards death, and was then brought up
      by an emetic; but has, notwithstanding, entirely ruined the
      constitution of Sieur Gamain; so that he cannot work for his
      family (as he now bethinks himself). The recompense of _which_ is
      “Pension of Twelve Hundred Francs,” and “honourable mention.” So
      different is the ratio of demand and supply at different times.

      Thus, amid obstructions and stimulating furtherances, has the
      Question of the Trial to grow; emerging and submerging; fostered
      by solicitous Patriotism. Of the Orations that were spoken on it,
      of the painfully devised Forms of Process for managing it, the
      Law Arguments to prove it lawful, and all the infinite floods of
      Juridical and other ingenuity and oratory, be no syllable
      reported in this History. Lawyer ingenuity is good: but what can
      it profit here? If the truth must be spoken, O august Senators,
      the only Law in this case is: _Væ victis_, the loser pays! Seldom
      did Robespierre say a wiser word than the hint he gave to that
      effect, in his oration, that it was needless to speak of Law,
      that here, if never elsewhere, our Right was Might. An oration
      admired almost to ecstasy by the Jacobin Patriot: who shall say
      that Robespierre is not a thorough-going man; bold in Logic at
      least? To the like effect, or still more plainly, spake young
      Saint-Just, the black-haired, mild-toned youth. Danton is on
      mission, in the Netherlands, during this preliminary work. The
      rest, far as one reads, welter amid Law of Nations, Social
      Contract, Juristics, Syllogistics; to us barren as the East wind.
      In fact, what can be more unprofitable than the sight of Seven
      Hundred and Forty-nine ingenious men, struggling with their whole
      force and industry, for a long course of weeks, to do at bottom
      this: To stretch out the old Formula and Law Phraseology, so that
      it may cover the new, contradictory, entirely _un_coverable
      Thing? Whereby the poor Formula does but _crack_, and one’s
      honesty along with it! The thing that is palpably _hot_, burning,
      wilt thou prove it, by syllogism, to be a freezing-mixture? This
      of stretching out Formulas till they crack is, especially in
      times of swift change, one of the sorrowfullest tasks poor
      Humanity has.


      Chapter 3.2.VI.
      At the Bar.

      Meanwhile, in a space of some five weeks, we have got to another
      emerging of the Trial, and a more practical one than ever.

      On Tuesday, eleventh of December, the King’s Trial has _emerged_,
      very decidedly: into the streets of Paris; in the shape of that
      green Carriage of Mayor Chambon, within which sits the King
      himself, with attendants, on his way to the Convention Hall!
      Attended, in that green Carriage, by Mayors Chambon, Procureurs
      Chaumette; and outside of it by Commandants Santerre, with
      cannon, cavalry and double row of infantry; all Sections under
      arms, strong Patrols scouring all streets; so fares he, slowly
      through the dull drizzling weather: and about two o’clock we
      behold him, “in walnut-coloured great-coat, _redingote
      noisette_,” descending through the Place Vendôme, towards that
      Salle de Manége; to be indicted, and judicially interrogated. The
      mysterious Temple Circuit has given up its secret; which now, in
      this walnut-coloured coat, men behold with eyes. The same bodily
      Louis who was once Louis the Desired, fares there: hapless King,
      he is getting now towards port; his deplorable farings and
      voyagings draw to a close. What duty remains to him henceforth,
      that of placidly enduring, he is fit to do.

      The singular Procession fares on; in silence, says Prudhomme, or
      amid growlings of the Marseillese Hymn; in silence, ushers itself
      into the Hall of the Convention, Santerre holding Louis’s arm
      with his hand. Louis looks round him, with composed air, to see
      what kind of Convention and Parliament it is. Much changed
      indeed:—since February gone two years, when our Constituent, then
      busy, spread fleur-de-lys velvet for us; and we came over to say
      a kind word here, and they all started up swearing Fidelity; and
      all France started up swearing, and made it a Feast of Pikes;
      which has ended in this! Barrère, who once “wept” looking up from
      his Editor’s-Desk, looks down now from his President’s-Chair,
      with a list of Fifty-seven Questions; and says, dry-eyed: ‘Louis,
      you may sit down.’ Louis sits down: it is the very seat, they
      say, same timber and stuffing, from which he accepted the
      Constitution, amid dancing and illumination, autumn gone a year.
      So much woodwork remains identical; so much else is not
      identical. Louis sits and listens, with a composed look and mind.

      Of the Fifty-seven Questions we shall not give so much as one.
      They are questions captiously embracing all the main Documents
      seized on the Tenth of August, or found lately in the Iron Press;
      embracing all the main incidents of the Revolution History; and
      they ask, in substance, this: Louis, who wert King, art thou not
      guilty to a certain extent, by act and written document, of
      trying to continue King? Neither in the Answers is there much
      notable. Mere quiet negations, for most part; an accused man
      standing on the simple basis of _No:_ I do not recognise that
      document; I did not do that act; or did it according to the law
      that then was. Whereupon the Fifty-seven Questions, and Documents
      to the number of a Hundred and Sixty-two, being exhausted in this
      manner, Barrère finishes, after some three hours, with his:
      ‘Louis, I invite you to withdraw.’

      Louis withdraws, under Municipal escort, into a neighbouring
      Committee-room; having first, in leaving the bar, demanded to
      have Legal Counsel. He declines refreshment, in this
      Committee-room, then, seeing Chaumette busy with a small loaf
      which a grenadier had divided with him, says, he will take a bit
      of bread. It is five o’clock; and he had breakfasted but slightly
      in a morning of such drumming and alarm. Chaumette breaks his
      half-loaf: the King eats of the crust; mounts the green Carriage,
      eating; asks now what he shall do with the crumb? Chaumette’s
      clerk takes it from him; flings it out into the street. Louis
      says, It is pity to fling out bread, in a time of dearth. ‘My
      grandmother,’ remarks Chaumette, ‘used to say to me, Little boy,
      never waste a crumb of bread, you cannot make one.’ ‘Monsieur
      Chaumette,’ answers Louis, ‘your grandmother seems to have been a
      sensible woman.’[590] Poor innocent mortal: so quietly he waits
      the drawing of the lot;—fit to do this at least well; Passivity
      alone, without Activity, sufficing for it! He talks once of
      travelling over France by and by, to have a geographical and
      topographical view of it; being from of old fond of
      geography.—The Temple Circuit again receives him, closes on him;
      gazing Paris may retire to its hearths and coffee-houses, to its
      clubs and theatres: the damp Darkness has sunk, and with it the
      drumming and patrolling of this strange Day.

      Louis is now separated from his Queen and Family; given up to his
      simple reflections and resources. Dull lie these stone walls
      round him; of his loved ones none with him. In this state of
      “uncertainty,” providing for the worst, he writes his Will: a
      Paper which can still be read; full of placidity, simplicity,
      pious sweetness. The Convention, after debate, has granted him
      Legal Counsel, of his own choosing. Advocate Target feels himself
      “too old,” being turned of fifty-four; and declines. He had
      gained great honour once, defending Rohan the Necklace-Cardinal;
      but will gain none here. Advocate Tronchet, some ten years older,
      does not decline. Nay behold, good old Malesherbes steps forward
      voluntarily; to the last of his fields, the good old hero! He is
      grey with seventy years: he says, “I was twice called to the
      Council of him who was my Master, when all the world coveted that
      honour; and I owe him the same service now, when it has become
      one which many reckon dangerous.” These two, with a younger
      Desèze, whom they will select for pleading, are busy over that
      Fifty-and-sevenfold Indictment, over the Hundred and Sixty-two
      Documents; Louis aiding them as he can.

      A great Thing is now therefore in open progress; all men, in all
      lands, watching it. By what Forms and Methods shall the
      Convention acquit itself, in such manner that there rest not on
      it even the suspicion of blame? Difficult that will be! The
      Convention, really much at a loss, discusses and deliberates. All
      day from morning to night, day after day, the Tribune drones with
      oratory on this matter; one must stretch the old Formula to cover
      the new Thing. The Patriots of the Mountain, whetted ever keener,
      clamour for despatch above all; the only good Form will be a
      swift one. Nevertheless the Convention deliberates; the Tribune
      drones,—drowned indeed in tenor, and even in treble, from time to
      time; the whole Hall shrilling up round it into pretty frequent
      wrath and provocation. It has droned and shrilled wellnigh a
      fortnight, before we can decide, this shrillness getting ever
      shriller, That on Wednesday 26th of December, Louis shall appear,
      and plead. His Advocates complain that it is fatally soon; which
      they well might as Advocates: but without remedy; to Patriotism
      it seems endlessly late.

      On Wednesday, therefore, at the cold dark hour of eight in the
      morning, all Senators are at their post. Indeed they warm the
      cold hour, as we find, by a violent effervescence, such as is too
      common now; some Louvet or Buzot attacking some Tallien, Chabot;
      and so the whole Mountain effervescing against the whole Gironde.
      Scarcely is this done, at nine, when Louis and his three
      Advocates, escorted by the clang of arms and Santerre’s National
      force, enter the Hall.

      Desèze unfolds his papers; honourably fulfilling his perilous
      office, pleads for the space of three hours. An honourable
      Pleading, “composed almost overnight;” courageous yet discreet;
      not without ingenuity, and soft pathetic eloquence: Louis fell on
      his neck, when they had withdrawn, and said with tears, _Mon
      pauvre Desèze_. Louis himself, before withdrawing, had added a
      few words, ‘perhaps the last he would utter to them:’ how it
      pained his heart, above all things, to be held guilty of that
      bloodshed on the Tenth of August; or of ever shedding or wishing
      to shed French blood. So saying, he withdrew from that
      Hall;—having indeed finished his work there. Many are the strange
      errands he has had thither; but this strange one is the last.

      And now, why will the Convention loiter? Here is the Indictment
      and Evidence; here is the Pleading: does not the rest follow of
      itself? The Mountain, and Patriotism in general, clamours still
      louder for despatch; for Permanent-session, till the task be
      done. Nevertheless a doubting, apprehensive Convention decides
      that it will still deliberate first; that all Members, who desire
      it, shall have leave to speak.—To your desks, therefore, ye
      eloquent Members! Down with your thoughts, your echoes and
      hearsays of thoughts: now is the time to shew oneself; France and
      the Universe listens! Members are not wanting: Oration spoken
      Pamphlet follows spoken Pamphlet, with what eloquence it can:
      President’s List swells ever higher with names claiming to speak;
      from day to day, all days and all hours, the constant Tribune
      drones;—shrill Galleries supplying, very variably, the tenor and
      treble. It were a dull tune otherwise.

      The Patriots, in Mountain and Galleries, or taking counsel
      nightly in Section-house, in Mother Society, amid their shrill
      _Tricoteuses_, have to watch lynx-eyed; to give voice when
      needful; occasionally very loud. Deputy Thuriot, he who was
      Advocate Thuriot, who was Elector Thuriot, and from the top of
      the Bastille, saw Saint-Antoine rising like the ocean; this
      Thuriot can stretch a Formula as heartily as most men. Cruel
      Billaud is not silent, if you incite him. Nor is cruel Jean-Bon
      silent; a kind of Jesuit he too;—write him not, as the
      Dictionaries too often do, _Jambon_, which signifies mere _Ham_.

      But, on the whole, let no man conceive it possible that Louis is
      not guilty. The only question for a reasonable man is, or was:
      Can the Convention judge Louis? Or must it be the whole People:
      in Primary Assembly, and with delay? Always delay, ye Girondins,
      false _hommes d’état!_ so bellows Patriotism, its patience almost
      failing.—But indeed, if we consider it, what shall these poor
      Girondins do? Speak their convictions that Louis is a Prisoner of
      War; and cannot be put to death without injustice, solecism,
      peril? Speak such conviction; and lose utterly your footing with
      the decided Patriot? Nay properly it is not even a conviction,
      but a conjecture and dim puzzle. How many poor Girondins are sure
      of but one thing: That a man and Girondin ought to _have_ footing
      somewhere, and to stand firmly on it; keeping well with the
      Respectable Classes! _This_ is what conviction and assurance of
      faith they have. They must wriggle painfully between their
      dilemma-horns.[591]

      Nor is France idle, nor Europe. It is a Heart this Convention, as
      we said, which sends out influences, and receives them. A King’s
      Execution, call it Martyrdom, call it Punishment, were an
      influence! Two notable influences this Convention has already
      sent forth, over all Nations; much to its own detriment. On the
      19th of November, it emitted a Decree, and has since confirmed
      and unfolded the details of it. That any Nation which might see
      good to shake off the fetters of Despotism was thereby, so to
      speak, the Sister of France, and should have help and
      countenance. A Decree much noised of by Diplomatists, Editors,
      International Lawyers; such a Decree as no living Fetter of
      Despotism, nor Person in Authority anywhere, can approve of! It
      was Deputy Chambon the Girondin who propounded this Decree;—at
      bottom perhaps as a flourish of rhetoric.

      The second influence we speak of had a still poorer origin: in
      the restless loud-rattling slightly-furnished head of one Jacob
      Dupont from the Loire country. The Convention is speculating on a
      plan of National Education: Deputy Dupont in his speech says, ‘I
      am free to avow, M. le Président, that I for my part am an
      Atheist,’[592]—thinking the world might like to know that. The
      French world received it without commentary; or with no audible
      commentary, so _loud_ was France otherwise. The Foreign world
      received it with confutation, with horror and astonishment;[593]
      a most miserable influence this! And now if to these two were
      added a third influence, and sent pulsing abroad over all the
      Earth: that of Regicide?

      Foreign Courts interfere in this Trial of Louis; Spain, England:
      not to be listened to; though they come, as it were, at least
      Spain comes, with the olive-branch in one hand, and the sword
      without scabbard in the other. But at home too, from out of this
      circumambient Paris and France, what influences come
      thick-pulsing! Petitions flow in; pleading for equal justice, in
      a reign of so-called Equality. The living Patriot pleads;—O ye
      National Deputies, do not the dead Patriots plead? The Twelve
      Hundred that lie in cold obstruction, do not they plead; and
      petition, in Death’s dumb-show, from their narrow house there,
      more eloquently than speech? Crippled Patriots hop on crutches
      round the Salle de Manége, demanding justice. The Wounded of the
      Tenth of August, the Widows and Orphans of the Killed petition in
      a body; and hop and defile, eloquently mute, through the Hall:
      one wounded Patriot, unable to hop, is borne on his bed thither,
      and passes shoulder-high, in the horizontal posture.[594] The
      Convention Tribune, which has paused at such sight, commences
      again,—droning mere Juristic Oratory. But out of doors Paris is
      piping ever higher. Bull-voiced St. Huruge is heard; and the
      hysteric eloquence of Mother Duchesse: “Varlet, Apostle of
      Liberty,” with pike and red cap, flies hastily, carrying his
      oratorical folding-stool. Justice on the Traitor! cries all the
      Patriot world. Consider also this other cry, heard loud on the
      streets: ‘Give us Bread, or else kill us!’ Bread and Equality;
      Justice on the Traitor, that we may have Bread!

      The Limited or undecided Patriot is set against the Decided.
      Mayor Chambon heard of dreadful rioting at the _Théâtre de la
      Nation:_ it had come to rioting, and even to fist-work, between
      the Decided and the Undecided, touching a new Drama called _Ami
      des Lois_ (Friend of the Laws). One of the poorest Dramas ever
      written; but which had didactic applications in it; wherefore
      powdered wigs of Friends of Order and black hair of Jacobin heads
      are flying there; and Mayor Chambon hastens with Santerre, in
      hopes to quell it. Far from quelling it, our poor Mayor gets so
      “squeezed,” says the Report, and likewise so blamed and bullied,
      say we,—that he, with regret, quits the brief Mayoralty
      altogether, “his lungs being affected.” This miserable _Amis des
      Lois_ is debated of in the Convention itself; so violent,
      mutually-enraged, are the Limited Patriots and the
      Unlimited.[595]

      Between which two classes, are not Aristocrats enough, and
      Crypto-Aristocrats, busy? Spies running over from London with
      important Packets; spies pretending to run! One of these latter,
      Viard was the name of him, pretended to accuse Roland, and even
      the Wife of Roland; to the joy of Chabot and the Mountain. But
      the Wife of Roland came, being summoned, on the instant, to the
      Convention Hall; came, in her high clearness; and, with few clear
      words, dissipated this Viard into despicability and air; all
      Friends of Order applauding.[596] So, with Theatre-riots, and
      “Bread, or else kill us;” with Rage, Hunger, preternatural
      Suspicion, does this wild Paris pipe. Roland grows ever more
      querulous, in his Messages and Letters; rising almost to the
      hysterical pitch. Marat, whom no power on Earth can prevent
      seeing into traitors and Rolands, takes to bed for three days;
      almost dead, the invaluable People’s-Friend, with heartbreak,
      with fever and headache: “_O, Peuple babillard, si tu savais
      agir_, People of Babblers, if thou couldst but _act!_”

      To crown all, victorious Dumouriez, in these New-year’s days, is
      arrived in Paris;—one fears, for no good. He pretends to be
      complaining of Minister Pache, and Hassenfratz dilapidations; to
      be concerting measures for the spring campaign: one finds him
      much in the company of the Girondins. Plotting with them against
      Jacobinism, against Equality, and the Punishment of Louis! We
      have Letters of his to the Convention itself. Will he act the old
      Lafayette part, this new victorious General? Let him withdraw
      again; not undenounced.[597]

      And still, in the Convention Tribune, it drones continually, mere
      Juristic Eloquence, and Hypothesis without Action; and there are
      still fifties on the President’s List. Nay these Gironde
      Presidents give their own party preference: we suspect they play
      foul with the List; men of the Mountain cannot be heard. And
      still it drones, all through December into January and a New
      year; and there is no end! Paris pipes round it; multitudinous;
      ever higher, to the note of the whirlwind. Paris will “bring
      cannon from Saint-Denis;” there is talk of “shutting the
      Barriers,”—to Roland’s horror.

      Whereupon, behold, the Convention Tribune suddenly ceases
      droning: we cut short, be on the List who likes; and make end. On
      Tuesday next, the Fifteenth of January 1793, it shall go to the
      Vote, name by name; and, one way or other, this great game play
      itself out!


      Chapter 3.2.VII.
      The Three Votings.

      Is Louis Capet guilty of conspiring against Liberty? Shall our
      Sentence be itself final, or need ratifying by Appeal to the
      People? If guilty, what Punishment? This is the form agreed to,
      after uproar and “several hours of tumultuous indecision:” these
      are the Three successive Questions, whereon the Convention shall
      now pronounce. Paris floods round their Hall; multitudinous, many
      sounding. Europe and all Nations listen for their answer. Deputy
      after Deputy shall answer to his name: Guilty or Not guilty?

      As to the Guilt, there is, as above hinted, no doubt in the mind
      of Patriot man. Overwhelming majority pronounces Guilt; the
      unanimous Convention votes for Guilt, only some feeble
      twenty-eight voting not Innocence, but refusing to vote at all.
      Neither does the Second Question prove doubtful, whatever the
      Girondins might calculate. Would not Appeal to the People be
      another name for civil war? Majority of two to one answers that
      there shall be no Appeal: this also is settled. Loud Patriotism,
      now at ten o’clock, may hush itself for the night; and retire to
      its bed not without hope. Tuesday has gone well. On the morrow
      comes, What Punishment? On the morrow is the tug of war.

      Consider therefore if, on this Wednesday morning, there is an
      affluence of Patriotism; if Paris stands a-tiptoe, and all
      Deputies are at their post! Seven Hundred and Forty-nine
      honourable Deputies; only some twenty absent on mission, Duchâtel
      and some seven others absent by sickness. Meanwhile expectant
      Patriotism and Paris standing a-tiptoe, have need of patience.
      For this Wednesday again passes in debate and effervescence;
      Girondins proposing that a “majority of three-fourths” shall be
      required; Patriots fiercely resisting them. Danton, who has just
      got back from mission in the Netherlands, does obtain “order of
      the day” on this Girondin proposal; nay he obtains further that
      we decide _sans désemparer_, in Permanent-session, till we have
      done.

      And so, finally, at eight in the evening this Third stupendous
      Voting, by roll-call or _appel nominal_, does begin. What
      Punishment? Girondins undecided, Patriots decided, men afraid of
      Royalty, men afraid of Anarchy, must answer here and now.
      Infinite Patriotism, dusky in the lamp-light, floods all
      corridors, crowds all galleries, sternly waiting to hear.
      Shrill-sounding Ushers summon you by Name and Department; you
      must rise to the Tribune and say.

      Eye-witnesses have represented this scene of the Third Voting,
      and of the votings that grew out of it; a scene protracted, like
      to be endless, lasting, with few brief intervals, from Wednesday
      till Sunday morning,—as one of the strangest seen in the
      Revolution. Long night wears itself into day, morning’s paleness
      is spread over all faces; and again the wintry shadows sink, and
      the dim lamps are lit: but through day and night and the
      vicissitude of hours, Member after Member is mounting continually
      those Tribune-steps; pausing aloft there, in the clearer upper
      light, to speak his Fate-word; then diving down into the dusk and
      throng again. Like Phantoms in the hour of midnight; most
      spectral, pandemonial! Never did President Vergniaud, or any
      terrestrial President, superintend the like. A King’s Life, and
      so much else that depends thereon, hangs trembling in the
      balance. Man after man mounts; the buzz hushes itself till he
      have spoken: Death; Banishment: Imprisonment till the Peace. Many
      say, Death; with what cautious well-studied phrases and
      paragraphs they could devise, of explanation, of enforcement, of
      faint recommendation to mercy. Many too say, Banishment;
      something short of Death. The balance trembles, none can yet
      guess whitherward. Whereat anxious Patriotism bellows;
      irrepressible by Ushers.

      The poor Girondins, many of them, under such fierce bellowing of
      Patriotism, say Death; justifying, _motivant_, that most
      miserable word of theirs by some brief casuistry and jesuitry.
      Vergniaud himself says, Death; justifying by jesuitry. Rich
      Lepelletier Saint-Fargeau had been of the Noblesse, and then of
      the Patriot Left Side, in the Constituent; and had argued and
      reported, there and elsewhere, not a little, _against_ Capital
      Punishment: nevertheless he now says, Death; a word which may
      cost him dear. Manuel did surely rank with the Decided in August
      last; but he has been sinking and backsliding ever since
      September, and the scenes of September. In this Convention, above
      all, no word he could speak would find favour; he says now,
      Banishment; and in mute wrath quits the place for ever,—much
      hustled in the corridors. Philippe Egalité votes in his soul and
      conscience, Death, at the sound of which, and of whom, even
      Patriotism shakes its head; and there runs a groan and shudder
      through this Hall of Doom. Robespierre’s vote cannot be doubtful;
      his speech is long. Men see the figure of shrill Sieyes ascend;
      hardly pausing, passing merely, this figure says, ‘_La Mort sans
      phrase_, Death without phrases;’ and fares onward and downward.
      Most spectral, pandemonial!

      And yet if the Reader fancy it of a funereal, sorrowful or even
      grave character, he is far mistaken. “The Ushers in the Mountain
      quarter,” says Mercier, “had become as Box-openers at the Opera;”
      opening and shutting of Galleries for privileged persons, for
      “d’Orléans Egalité’s mistresses,” or other high-dizened women of
      condition, rustling with laces and tricolor. Gallant Deputies
      pass and repass thitherward, treating them with ices,
      refreshments and small-talk; the high-dizened heads beck
      responsive; some have their card and pin, pricking down the Ayes
      and Noes, as at a game of _Rouge-et-Noir_. Further aloft reigns
      Mère Duchesse with her unrouged Amazons; she cannot be prevented
      making long _Hahas_, when the vote is not _La Mort_. In these
      Galleries there is refection, drinking of wine and brandy “as in
      open tavern, _en pleine tabagie_.” Betting goes on in all
      coffeehouses of the neighbourhood. But within doors, fatigue,
      impatience, uttermost weariness sits now on all visages; lighted
      up only from time to time, by turns of the game. Members have
      fallen asleep; Ushers come and awaken them to vote: other Members
      calculate whether they shall not have time to run and dine.
      Figures rise, like phantoms, pale in the dusky lamp-light; utter
      from this Tribune, only one word: Death. “_Tout est optique_,”
      says Mercier, “the world is all an optical shadow.”[598] Deep in
      the Thursday night, when the Voting is done, and Secretaries are
      summing it up, sick Duchâtel, more spectral than another, comes
      borne on a chair, wrapt in blankets, “in nightgown and nightcap,”
      to vote for Mercy: one vote it is thought may turn the scale.

      Ah no! In profoundest silence, President Vergniaud, with a voice
      full of sorrow, has to say: ‘I declare, in the name of the
      Convention, that the Punishment it pronounces on Louis Capet is
      that of Death.’ Death by a small majority of Fifty-three. Nay, if
      we deduct from the one side, and add to the other, a certain
      Twenty-six, who said Death but coupled some faintest ineffectual
      surmise of mercy with it, the majority will be but _One_.

      Death is the sentence: but its execution? It is not executed yet!
      Scarcely is the vote declared when Louis’s Three Advocates enter;
      with Protest in his name, with demand for Delay, for Appeal to
      the People. For this do Desèze and Tronchet plead, with brief
      eloquence: brave old Malesherbes pleads for it with eloquent want
      of eloquence, in broken sentences, in embarrassment and sobs;
      that brave time-honoured face, with its grey strength, its broad
      sagacity and honesty, is mastered with emotion, melts into dumb
      tears.[599]—They reject the Appeal to the People; that having
      been already settled. But as to the Delay, what they call
      _Sursis_, it _shall_ be considered; shall be voted for tomorrow:
      at present we adjourn. Whereupon Patriotism “hisses” from the
      Mountain: but a “tyrannical majority” has so decided, and
      adjourns.

      There is still this _fourth_ Vote then, growls indignant
      Patriotism:—this vote, and who knows what other votes, and
      adjournments of voting; and the whole matter still hovering
      hypothetical! And at every new vote those Jesuit Girondins, even
      they who voted for Death, would so fain find a loophole!
      Patriotism must watch and rage. Tyrannical adjournments there
      have been; one, and now another at midnight on plea of
      fatigue,—all Friday wasted in hesitation and higgling; in
      _re_-counting of the votes, which are found correct as they
      stood! Patriotism bays fiercer than ever; Patriotism, by
      long-watching, has become red-eyed, almost rabid.

      ‘Delay: yes or no?’ men do vote it finally, all Saturday, all day
      and night. Men’s nerves are worn out, men’s hearts are desperate;
      now it shall end. Vergniaud, spite of the baying, ventures to say
      Yes, Delay; though he had voted Death. Philippe Egalité says, in
      his soul and conscience, No. The next Member mounting: ‘Since
      Philippe says No, I for my part say Yes, _Moi je dis Oui_.’ The
      balance still trembles. Till finally, at three o’clock on Sunday
      morning, we have: _No Delay_, by a majority of Seventy; _Death
      within four-and-twenty hours!_

      Garat Minister of Justice has to go to the Temple, with this
      stern message: he ejaculates repeatedly, ‘_Quelle commission
      affreuse_, What a frightful function!’[600] Louis begs for a
      Confessor; for yet three days of life, to prepare himself to die.
      The Confessor is granted; the three days and all respite are
      refused.

      There is no deliverance, then? Thick stone walls answer, None—Has
      King Louis no friends? Men of action, of courage grown desperate,
      in this his extreme need? King Louis’s friends are feeble and
      far. Not even a voice in the coffeehouses rises for him. At Méot
      the Restaurateur’s no Captain Dampmartin now dines; or sees
      death-doing whiskerandoes on furlough exhibit daggers of improved
      structure! Méot’s gallant Royalists on furlough are far across
      the Marches; they are wandering distracted over the world: or
      their bones lie whitening Argonne Wood. Only some weak Priests
      “leave Pamphlets on all the bournestones,” this night, calling
      for a rescue; calling for the pious women to rise; or are taken
      distributing Pamphlets, and sent to prison.[601]

      Nay there is one death-doer, of the ancient Méot sort, who, with
      effort, has done even less and worse: slain a Deputy, and set all
      the Patriotism of Paris on edge! It was five on Saturday evening
      when Lepelletier St. Fargeau, having given his vote, _No Delay_,
      ran over to Février’s in the Palais Royal to snatch a morsel of
      dinner. He had dined, and was paying. A thickset man “with black
      hair and blue beard,” in a loose kind of frock, stept up to him;
      it was, as Février and the bystanders bethought them, one Pâris
      of the old King’s-Guard. ‘Are you Lepelletier?’ asks
      he.—‘Yes.’—‘You voted in the King’s Business?’—‘I voted
      Death.’—‘_Scélérat_, take that!’ cries Pâris, flashing out a
      sabre from under his frock, and plunging it deep in Lepelletier’s
      side. Février clutches him; but he breaks off; is gone.

      The voter Lepelletier lies dead; he has expired in great pain, at
      one in the morning;—two hours before that Vote of _No Delay_ was
      fully summed up! Guardsman Pâris is flying over France; cannot be
      taken; will be found some months after, self-shot in a remote
      inn.[602]—Robespierre sees reason to think that Prince d’Artois
      himself is privately in Town; that the Convention will be
      butchered in the lump. Patriotism sounds mere wail and vengeance:
      Santerre doubles and trebles all his patrols. Pity is lost in
      rage and fear; the Convention has refused the three days of life
      and all respite.


      Chapter 3.2.VIII.
      Place de la Révolution.

      To this conclusion, then, hast thou come, O hapless Louis! The
      Son of Sixty Kings is to die on the Scaffold by form of law.
      Under Sixty Kings this same form of Law, form of Society, has
      been fashioning itself together, these thousand years; and has
      become, one way and other, a most strange Machine. Surely, if
      needful, it is also frightful this Machine; dead, blind; not what
      it should be; which, with swift stroke, or by cold slow torture,
      has wasted the lives and souls of innumerable men. And behold now
      a King himself, or say rather Kinghood in his person, is to
      expire here in cruel tortures;—like a Phalaris shut in the belly
      of his own red-heated Brazen Bull! It is ever so; and thou
      shouldst know it, O haughty tyrannous man: injustice breeds
      injustice; curses and falsehoods do verily “return always home,”
      wide as they may wander. Innocent Louis bears the sins of many
      generations: he too experiences that man’s tribunal is not in
      this Earth; that if he had no Higher one, it were not well with
      him.

      A King dying by such violence appeals impressively to the
      imagination; as the like must do, and ought to do. And yet at
      bottom it is not the King dying, but the Man! Kingship is a coat;
      the grand loss is of the skin. The man from whom you take his
      Life, to him can the whole combined world do _more?_ Lally went
      on his hurdle, his mouth filled with a gag. Miserablest mortals,
      doomed for picking pockets, have a whole five-act Tragedy in
      them, in that dumb pain, as they go to the gallows, unregarded;
      they consume the cup of trembling down to the lees. For Kings and
      for Beggars, for the justly doomed and the unjustly, it is a hard
      thing to die. Pity them all: thy utmost pity with all aids and
      appliances and throne-and-scaffold contrasts, how far short is it
      of the thing pitied!

      A Confessor has come; Abbé Edgeworth, of Irish extraction, whom
      the King knew by good report, has come promptly on this solemn
      mission. Leave the Earth alone, then, thou hapless King; it with
      its malice will go its way, thou also canst go thine. A hard
      scene yet remains: the parting with our loved ones. Kind hearts,
      environed in the same grim peril with us; to be left _here!_ Let
      the Reader look with the eyes of Valet Cléry, through these
      glass-doors, where also the Municipality watches; and see the
      cruellest of scenes:

      “At half-past eight, the door of the ante-room opened: the Queen
      appeared first, leading her Son by the hand; then Madame Royale
      and Madame Elizabeth: they all flung themselves into the arms of
      the King. Silence reigned for some minutes; interrupted only by
      sobs. The Queen made a movement to lead his Majesty towards the
      inner room, where M. Edgeworth was waiting unknown to them: ‘No,’
      said the King, ‘let us go into the dining-room, it is there only
      that I can see you.’ They entered there; I shut the door of it,
      which was of glass. The King sat down, the Queen on his left
      hand, Madame Elizabeth on his right, Madame Royale almost in
      front; the young Prince remained standing between his Father’s
      legs. They all leaned towards him, and often held him embraced.
      This scene of woe lasted an hour and three-quarters; during which
      we could hear nothing; we could see only that always when the
      King spoke, the sobbings of the Princesses redoubled, continued
      for some minutes; and that then the King began again to
      speak.”[603]—And so our meetings and our partings do now end! The
      sorrows we gave each other; the poor joys we faithfully shared,
      and all our lovings and our sufferings, and confused toilings
      under the earthly Sun, are over. Thou good soul, I shall never,
      never through all ages of Time, see thee any more!—NEVER! O
      Reader, knowest thou that hard word?

      For nearly two hours this agony lasts; then they tear themselves
      asunder. ‘Promise that you will see us on the morrow.’ He
      promises:—Ah yes, yes; yet once; and go now, ye loved ones; cry
      to God for yourselves and me!—It was a hard scene, but it is
      over. He will not see them on the morrow. The Queen in passing
      through the ante-room glanced at the Cerberus Municipals; and
      with woman’s vehemence, said through her tears, ‘_Vous êtes tous
      des scélérats_.’

      King Louis slept sound, till five in the morning, when Cléry, as
      he had been ordered, awoke him. Cléry dressed his hair. While
      this went forward, Louis took a ring from his watch, and kept
      trying it on his finger; it was his wedding-ring, which he is now
      to return to the Queen as a mute farewell. At half-past six, he
      took the Sacrament; and continued in devotion, and conference
      with Abbé Edgeworth. He will not see his Family: it were too hard
      to bear.

      At eight, the Municipals enter: the King gives them his Will and
      messages and effects; which they, at first, brutally refuse to
      take charge of: he gives them a roll of gold pieces, a hundred
      and twenty-five louis; these are to be returned to Malesherbes,
      who had lent them. At nine, Santerre says the hour is come. The
      King begs yet to retire for three minutes. At the end of three
      minutes, Santerre again says the hour is come. “Stamping on the
      ground with his right foot, Louis answers: ‘_Partons_, let us
      go.’”—How the rolling of those drums comes in, through the Temple
      bastions and bulwarks, on the heart of a queenly wife; soon to be
      a widow! He is gone, then, and has not seen us? A Queen weeps
      bitterly; a King’s Sister and Children. Over all these Four does
      Death also hover: all shall perish miserably save one; she, as
      Duchesse d’Angouleme, will live,—not happily.

      At the Temple Gate were some faint cries, perhaps from voices of
      pitiful women: ‘_Grâce! Grâce!_’ Through the rest of the streets
      there is silence as of the grave. No man not armed is allowed to
      be there: the armed, did any even pity, dare not express it, each
      man overawed by all his neighbours. All windows are down, none
      seen looking through them. All shops are shut. No wheel-carriage
      rolls this morning, in these streets but one only. Eighty
      thousand armed men stand ranked, like armed statues of men;
      cannons bristle, cannoneers with match burning, but no word or
      movement: it is as a city enchanted into silence and stone; one
      carriage with its escort, slowly rumbling, is the only sound.
      Louis reads, in his Book of Devotion, the Prayers of the Dying:
      clatter of this death-march falls sharp on the ear, in the great
      silence; but the thought would fain struggle heavenward, and
      forget the Earth.

      As the clocks strike ten, behold the Place de la Révolution, once
      Place de Louis Quinze: the Guillotine, mounted near the old
      Pedestal where once stood the Statue of that Louis! Far round,
      all bristles with cannons and armed men: spectators crowding in
      the rear; d’Orléans Egalité there in cabriolet. Swift messengers,
      _hoquetons_, speed to the Townhall, every three minutes: near by
      is the Convention sitting,—vengeful for Lepelletier. Heedless of
      all, Louis reads his Prayers of the Dying; not till five minutes
      yet has he finished; then the Carriage opens. What temper he is
      in? Ten different witnesses will give ten different accounts of
      it. He is in the collision of all tempers; arrived now at the
      black Mahlstrom and descent of Death: in sorrow, in indignation,
      in resignation struggling to be resigned. ‘Take care of M.
      Edgeworth,’ he straitly charges the Lieutenant who is sitting
      with them: then they two descend.

      The drums are beating: ‘_Taisez-vous_, Silence!’ he cries “in a
      terrible voice, _d’une voix terrible_.” He mounts the scaffold,
      not without delay; he is in puce coat, breeches of grey, white
      stockings. He strips off the coat; stands disclosed in a
      sleeve-waistcoat of white flannel. The Executioners approach to
      bind him: he spurns, resists; Abbé Edgeworth has to remind him
      how the Saviour, in whom men trust, submitted to be bound. His
      hands are tied, his head bare; the fatal moment is come. He
      advances to the edge of the Scaffold, “his face very red,” and
      says: ‘Frenchmen, I die innocent: it is from the Scaffold and
      near appearing before God that I tell you so. I pardon my
      enemies; I desire that France—’ A General on horseback, Santerre
      or another, prances out with uplifted hand: ‘_Tambours!_’ The
      drums drown the voice. ‘Executioners do your duty!’ The
      Executioners, desperate lest themselves be murdered (for Santerre
      and his Armed Ranks will strike, if they do not), seize the
      hapless Louis: six of them desperate, him singly desperate,
      struggling there; and bind him to their plank. Abbé Edgeworth,
      stooping, bespeaks him: ‘Son of Saint Louis, ascend to Heaven.’
      The Axe clanks down; a King’s Life is shorn away. It is Monday
      the 21st of January 1793. He was aged Thirty-eight years four
      months and twenty-eight days.[604]

      Executioner Samson shews the Head: fierce shout of _Vive la
      République_ rises, and swells; caps raised on bayonets, hats
      waving: students of the College of Four Nations take it up, on
      the far Quais; fling it over Paris. Orleans drives off in his
      cabriolet; the Townhall Councillors rub their hands, saying, ‘It
      is done, It is done.’ There is dipping of handkerchiefs, of
      pike-points in the blood. Headsman Samson, though he afterwards
      denied it,[605] sells locks of the hair: fractions of the puce
      coat are long after worn in rings.[606]—And so, in some half-hour
      it is done; and the multitude has all departed. Pastrycooks,
      coffee-sellers, milkmen sing out their trivial quotidian cries:
      the world wags on, as if this were a common day. In the
      coffeehouses that evening, says Prudhomme, Patriot shook hands
      with Patriot in a more cordial manner than usual. Not till some
      days after, according to Mercier, did public men see what a grave
      thing it was.

      A grave thing it indisputably is; and will have consequences. On
      the morrow morning, Roland, so long steeped to the lips in
      disgust and chagrin, sends in his demission. His accounts lie all
      ready, correct in black-on-white to the uttermost farthing: these
      he wants but to have audited, that he might retire to remote
      obscurity to the country and his books. They will never be
      audited those accounts; he will never get retired thither.

      It was on Tuesday that Roland demitted. On Thursday comes
      Lepelletier St. Fargeau’s Funeral, and passage to the Pantheon of
      Great Men. Notable as the wild pageant of a winter day. The Body
      is borne aloft, half-bare; the winding sheet disclosing the
      death-wound: sabre and bloody clothes parade themselves; a
      “lugubrious music” wailing harsh _næniæ_. Oak-crowns shower down
      from windows; President Vergniaud walks there, with Convention,
      with Jacobin Society, and all Patriots of every colour, all
      mourning brotherlike.

      Notable also for another thing, this Burial of Lepelletier: it
      was the last act these men ever did with concert! All Parties and
      figures of Opinion, that agitate this distracted France and its
      Convention, now stand, as it were, face to face, and dagger to
      dagger; the King’s Life, round which they all struck and battled,
      being hurled down. Dumouriez, conquering Holland, growls ominous
      discontent, at the head of Armies. Men say Dumouriez will have a
      King; that young d’Orléans Egalité shall be his King. Deputy
      Fauchet, in the _Journal des Amis_, curses his day, more bitterly
      than Job did; invokes the poniards of Regicides, of “Arras
      Vipers” or Robespierres, of Pluto Dantons, of horrid Butchers
      Legendre and Simulacra d’Herbois, to send him swiftly to another
      world than _theirs_.[607] This is _Te-Deum_ Fauchet, of the
      Bastille Victory, of the _Cercle Social_. Sharp was the
      death-hail rattling round one’s Flag-of-truce, on that Bastille
      day: but it was soft to such wreckage of high Hope as this; one’s
      New Golden Era going down in leaden dross, and sulphurous black
      of the Everlasting Darkness!

      At home this Killing of a King has divided all friends; and
      abroad it has united all enemies. Fraternity of Peoples,
      Revolutionary Propagandism; Atheism, Regicide; total destruction
      of social order in this world! All Kings, and lovers of Kings,
      and haters of Anarchy, rank in coalition; as in a war for life.
      England signifies to Citizen Chauvelin, the Ambassador or rather
      Ambassador’s-Cloak, that he must quit the country in eight days.
      Ambassador’s-Cloak and Ambassador, Chauvelin and Talleyrand,
      depart accordingly.[608] Talleyrand, implicated in that Iron
      Press of the Tuileries, thinks it safest to make for America.

      England has cast out the Embassy: England declares war,—being
      shocked principally, it would seem, at the condition of the River
      Scheldt. Spain declares war; being shocked principally at some
      other thing; which doubtless the Manifesto indicates.[609] Nay we
      find it was not England that declared war first, or Spain first;
      but that France herself declared war first on both of
      them;[610]—a point of immense Parliamentary and Journalistic
      interest in those days, but which has become of no interest
      whatever in these. They all declare war. The sword is drawn, the
      scabbard thrown away. It is even as Danton said, in one of his
      all-too gigantic figures: ‘The coalised Kings threaten us; we
      hurl at their feet, as gage of battle, the Head of a King.’


      BOOK 3.III.
      THE GIRONDINS


      Chapter 3.3.I.
      Cause and Effect.

      This huge Insurrectionary Movement, which we liken to a breaking
      out of Tophet and the Abyss, has swept away Royalty, Aristocracy,
      and a King’s life. The question is, What will it next do; how
      will it henceforth shape itself? Settle down into a reign of Law
      and Liberty; according as the habits, persuasions and endeavours
      of the educated, monied, respectable class prescribe? That is to
      say: the volcanic lava-flood, bursting up in the manner
      described, will explode and flow according to Girondin Formula
      and pre-established rule of Philosophy? If so, for our Girondin
      friends it will be well.

      Meanwhile were not the prophecy rather that as no external force,
      Royal or other, now remains which could control this Movement,
      the Movement will follow a course of its own; probably a very
      original one? Further, that whatsoever man or men can best
      interpret the inward tendencies it has, and give them voice and
      activity, will obtain the lead of it? For the rest, that as a
      thing _without_ order, a thing proceeding from beyond and beneath
      the region of order, it must work and welter, not as a Regularity
      but as a Chaos; destructive and self-destructive; always till
      something that _has_ order arise, strong enough to bind it into
      subjection again? Which something, we may further conjecture,
      will not be a Formula, with philosophical propositions and
      forensic eloquence; but a Reality, probably with a sword in its
      hand!

      As for the Girondin Formula, of a respectable Republic for the
      Middle Classes, all manner of Aristocracies being now
      sufficiently demolished, there seems little reason to expect that
      the business will stop there. _Liberty, Equality, Fraternity_,
      these are the words; enunciative and prophetic. Republic for the
      respectable washed Middle Classes, how can that be the fulfilment
      thereof? Hunger and nakedness, and nightmare oppression lying
      heavy on Twenty-five million hearts; this, not the wounded
      vanities or contradicted philosophies of philosophical Advocates,
      rich Shopkeepers, rural Noblesse, was the prime mover in the
      French Revolution; as the like will be in all such Revolutions,
      in all countries. Feudal Fleur-de-lys had become an insupportably
      bad marching banner, and needed to be torn and trampled: but
      Moneybag of Mammon (for that, in these times, is what the
      respectable Republic for the Middle Classes will signify) is a
      still worse, while it lasts. Properly, indeed, it is the worst
      and basest of all banners, and symbols of dominion among men; and
      indeed is possible only in a time of general Atheism, and
      Unbelief in any thing save in brute Force and Sensualism; pride
      of birth, pride of office, any known kind of pride being a degree
      better than purse-pride. Freedom, Equality, Brotherhood: not in
      the Moneybag, but far elsewhere, will Sansculottism seek these
      things.

      We say therefore that an Insurrectionary France, loose of control
      from without, destitute of supreme order from within, will form
      one of the most tumultuous Activities ever seen on this Earth;
      such as no Girondin Formula can regulate. An immeasurable force,
      made up of forces manifold, heterogeneous, compatible and
      incompatible. In plainer words, this France must needs split into
      Parties; each of which seeking to make itself good,
      contradiction, exasperation will arise; and Parties on Parties
      find that they cannot work together, cannot exist together.

      As for the number of Parties, there will, strictly counting, be
      as many Parties as there are Opinions. According to which rule,
      in this National Convention itself, to say nothing of France
      generally, the number of Parties ought to be Seven Hundred and
      Forty-Nine; for every unit entertains his opinion. But now as
      every unit has at once an individual nature, or necessity to
      follow his own road, and a gregarious nature or necessity to see
      himself travelling by the side of others,—what can there be but
      dissolutions, precipitations, endless turbulence of attracting
      and repelling; till once the master-element get evolved, and this
      wild alchemy arrange itself again?

      To the length of Seven Hundred and Forty-nine Parties, however,
      no Nation was ever yet seen to go. Nor indeed much beyond the
      length of Two Parties; two at a time;—so invincible is man’s
      tendency to unite, with all the invincible divisiveness he has!
      Two Parties, we say, are the usual number at one time: let these
      two fight it out, all minor shades of party rallying under the
      shade likest them; when the one has fought down the other, then
      it, in its turn, may divide, self-destructive; and so the process
      continue, as far as needful. This is the way of Revolutions,
      which spring up as the French one has done; when the so-called
      Bonds of Society snap asunder; and all Laws that are not Laws of
      Nature become naught and Formulas merely.

      But quitting these somewhat abstract considerations, let History
      note this concrete reality which the streets of Paris exhibit, on
      Monday the 25th of February 1793. Long before daylight that
      morning, these streets are noisy and angry. Petitioning enough
      there has been; a Convention often solicited. It was but
      yesterday there came a Deputation of Washerwomen with Petition;
      complaining that not so much as soap could be had; to say nothing
      of bread, and condiments of bread. The cry of women, round the
      Salle de Manége, was heard plaintive: ‘_Du pain et du savon_,
      Bread and Soap.’[611]

      And now from six o’clock, this Monday morning, one perceives the
      Baker’s Queues unusually expanded, angrily agitating themselves.
      Not the Baker alone, but two Section Commissioners to help him,
      manage with difficulty the daily distribution of loaves.
      Soft-spoken assiduous, in the early candle-light, are Baker and
      Commissioners: and yet the pale chill February sunrise discloses
      an unpromising scene. Indignant Female Patriots, partly supplied
      with bread, rush now to the shops, declaring that they will have
      groceries. Groceries enough: sugar-barrels rolled forth into the
      street, Patriot Citoyennes weighing it out at a just rate of
      eleven-pence a pound; likewise coffee-chests, soap-chests, nay
      cinnamon and cloves-chests, with _aquavitæ_ and other forms of
      alcohol,—at a just rate, which some do not pay; the pale-faced
      Grocer silently wringing his hands! What help? The distributive
      Citoyennes are of violent speech and gesture, their long
      Eumenides’ hair hanging out of curl; nay in their girdles pistols
      are seen sticking: some, it is even said, have _beards_,—male
      Patriots in petticoats and mob-cap. Thus, in the streets of
      Lombards, in the street of Five-Diamonds, street of Pullies, in
      most streets of Paris does it effervesce, the livelong day; no
      Municipality, no Mayor Pache, though he was War-Minister lately,
      sends military against it, or aught against it but
      persuasive-eloquence, till seven at night, or later.

      On Monday gone five weeks, which was the twenty-first of January,
      we saw Paris, beheading its King, stand silent, like a petrified
      City of Enchantment: and now on this Monday it is so noisy,
      selling sugar! Cities, especially Cities in Revolution, are
      subject to these alternations; the secret courses of civic
      business and existence effervescing and efflorescing, in this
      manner, as a concrete Phenomenon to the eye. Of which Phenomenon,
      when secret existence becoming public effloresces on the street,
      the philosophical cause-and-effect is not so easy to find. What,
      for example, may be the accurate philosophical meaning, and
      meanings, of this sale of sugar? These things that have become
      visible in the street of Pullies and over Paris, whence are they,
      we say; and whither?—

      That Pitt has a hand in it, the gold of Pitt: so much, to all
      reasonable Patriot men, may seem clear. But then, through what
      agents of Pitt? Varlet, Apostle of Liberty, was discerned again
      of late, with his pike and his red nightcap. Deputy Marat
      published in his journal, this very day, complaining of the
      bitter scarcity, and sufferings of the people, till he seemed to
      get wroth: “If your Rights of Man were anything but a piece of
      written paper, the plunder of a few shops, and a forestaller or
      two hung up at the door-lintels, would put an end to such
      things.”[612] Are not these, say the Girondins, pregnant
      indications? Pitt has bribed the Anarchists; Marat is the agent
      of Pitt: hence this sale of sugar. To the Mother Society, again,
      it is clear that the scarcity is factitious; is the work of
      Girondins, and such like; a set of men sold partly to Pitt; sold
      wholly to their own ambitions, and hard-hearted pedantries; who
      will not fix the grain-prices, but prate pedantically of
      free-trade; wishing to starve Paris into violence, and embroil it
      with the Departments: _hence_ this sale of sugar.

      And, alas, if to these two notabilities, of a Phenomenon and such
      Theories of a Phenomenon, we add this third notability, That the
      French Nation has believed, for several years now, in the
      possibility, nay certainty and near advent, of a universal
      Millennium, or reign of Freedom, Equality, Fraternity, wherein
      man should be the brother of man, and sorrow and sin flee away?
      Not bread to eat, nor soap to wash with; and the reign of perfect
      Felicity ready to arrive, due always since the Bastille fell! How
      did our hearts burn within us, at that Feast of Pikes, when
      brother flung himself on brother’s bosom; and in sunny jubilee,
      Twenty-five millions burst forth into sound and cannon-smoke!
      Bright was our Hope then, as sunlight; red-angry is our Hope
      grown now, as consuming fire. But, O Heavens, what enchantment is
      it, or devilish legerdemain, of such effect, that Perfect
      Felicity, always within arm’s length, could never be laid hold
      of, but only in her stead Controversy and Scarcity? This set of
      traitors after that set! Tremble, ye traitors; dread a People
      which calls itself patient, long-suffering; but which cannot
      always submit to have its pocket picked, in this way,—of a
      Millennium!

      Yes, Reader, here is a miracle. Out of that putrescent rubbish of
      Scepticism, Sensualism, Sentimentalism, hollow Machiavelism, such
      a Faith has verily risen; flaming in the heart of a People. A
      whole People, awakening as it were to consciousness in deep
      misery, believes that it is within reach of a Fraternal
      Heaven-on-Earth. With longing arms, it struggles to embrace the
      Unspeakable; cannot embrace it, owing to certain causes.—Seldom
      do we find that a whole People can be said to have any Faith at
      all; except in things which it can eat and handle. Whensoever it
      gets any Faith, its history becomes spirit-stirring, note-worthy.
      But since the time when steel Europe shook itself simultaneously,
      at the word of Hermit Peter, and rushed towards the Sepulchre
      where God had lain, there was no universal impulse of Faith that
      one could note. Since Protestantism went silent, no Luther’s
      voice, no Zisca’s drum any longer proclaiming that God’s Truth
      was _not_ the Devil’s Lie; and the last of the Cameronians
      (Renwick was the name of him; honour to the name of the brave!)
      sank, shot, on the Castle Hill of Edinburgh, there was no partial
      impulse of Faith among Nations. Till now, behold, once more this
      French Nation believes! Herein, we say, in that astonishing Faith
      of theirs, lies the miracle. It is a Faith undoubtedly of the
      more prodigious sort, even among Faiths; and will embody itself
      in prodigies. It is the soul of that world-prodigy named French
      Revolution; whereat the world still gazes and shudders.

      But, for the rest, let no man ask History to explain by
      cause-and-effect how the business proceeded henceforth. This
      battle of Mountain and Gironde, and what follows, is the battle
      of Fanaticisms and Miracles; unsuitable for cause-and-effect. The
      sound of it, to the mind, is as a hubbub of voices in
      distraction; little of articulate is to be gathered by long
      listening and studying; only battle-tumult, shouts of triumph,
      shrieks of despair. The Mountain has left no Memoirs; the
      Girondins have left Memoirs, which are too often little other
      than long-drawn Interjections, of _Woe is me and Cursed be ye_.
      So soon as History can philosophically delineate the
      conflagration of a kindled Fireship, she may try this other task.
      Here lay the bitumen-stratum, there the brimstone one; so ran the
      vein of gunpowder, of nitre, terebinth and foul grease: this,
      were she inquisitive enough, History might partly know. But how
      they acted and reacted below decks, one fire-stratum playing into
      the other, by its nature and the art of man, now when all hands
      ran raging, and the flames lashed high over shrouds and topmast:
      this let not History attempt.

      The Fireship is old France, the old French Form of Life; her
      creed a Generation of men. Wild are their cries and their ragings
      there, like spirits tormented in that flame. But, on the whole,
      are they not _gone_, O Reader? Their Fireship and they,
      frightening the world, have sailed away; its flames and its
      thunders quite away, into the Deep of Time. One thing therefore
      History will do: pity them all; for it went hard with them all.
      Not even the seagreen Incorruptible but shall have some pity,
      some human love, though it takes an effort. And now, so much once
      thoroughly attained, the rest will become easier. To the eye of
      equal brotherly pity, innumerable perversions dissipate
      themselves; exaggerations and execrations fall off, of their own
      accord. Standing wistfully on the safe shore, we will look, and
      see, what is of interest to us, what is adapted to us.


      Chapter 3.3.II.
      Culottic and Sansculottic.

      Gironde and Mountain are now in full quarrel; their mutual rage,
      says Toulongeon, is growing a “pale” rage. Curious, lamentable:
      all these men have the word Republic on their lips; in the heart
      of every one of them is a passionate wish for something which he
      calls Republic: yet see their death-quarrel! So, however, are men
      made. Creatures who live in confusion; who, once thrown together,
      can readily fall into that confusion of confusions which quarrel
      is, simply because their confusions differ from one another;
      still more because they seem to differ! Men’s words are a poor
      exponent of their thought; nay their thought itself is a poor
      exponent of the inward unnamed Mystery, wherefrom both thought
      and action have their birth. No man can explain himself, can get
      himself explained; men see not one another but distorted
      phantasms which they call one another; which they hate and go to
      battle with: for all battle is well said to be
      _misunderstanding_.

      But indeed that similitude of the Fireship; of our poor French
      brethren, so fiery themselves, working also in an _element_ of
      fire, was not insignificant. Consider it well, there is a shade
      of the truth in it. For a man, once committed headlong to
      republican or any other Transcendentalism, and fighting and
      fanaticising amid a Nation of his like, becomes as it were
      enveloped in an ambient atmosphere of Transcendentalism and
      Delirium: his individual self is lost in something that is not
      himself, but foreign though inseparable from him. Strange to
      think of, the man’s cloak still seems to hold the same man: and
      yet the man is not there, his volition is not there; nor the
      source of what he will do and devise; instead of the man and his
      volition there is a piece of Fanaticism and Fatalism incarnated
      in the shape of him. He, the hapless incarnated Fanaticism, goes
      his road; no man can help him, he himself least of all. It is a
      wonderful tragical predicament;—such as human language, unused to
      deal with these things, being contrived for the uses of common
      life, struggles to shadow out in figures. The ambient element of
      material fire is not wilder than this of Fanaticism; nor, though
      visible to the eye, is it more real. Volition bursts forth
      involuntary; rapt along; the movement of free human minds becomes
      a raging tornado of fatalism, blind as the winds; and Mountain
      and Gironde, when they recover themselves, are alike astounded to
      see _where_ it has flung and dropt them. To such height of
      miracle can men work on men; the Conscious and the Unconscious
      blended inscrutably in this our inscrutable Life; endless
      Necessity environing Freewill!

      The weapons of the Girondins are Political Philosophy,
      Respectability and Eloquence. Eloquence, or call it rhetoric,
      really of a superior order; Vergniaud, for instance, turns a
      period as sweetly as any man of that generation. The weapons of
      the Mountain are those of mere nature: Audacity and Impetuosity
      which may become Ferocity, as of men complete in their
      determination, in their conviction; nay of men, in some cases,
      who as Septemberers must either prevail or perish. The ground to
      be fought for is Popularity: further you may either seek
      Popularity with the friends of Freedom and Order, or with the
      friends of Freedom Simple; to seek it with both has unhappily
      become impossible. With the former sort, and generally with the
      Authorities of the Departments, and such as read Parliamentary
      Debates, and are of Respectability, and of a peace-loving monied
      nature, the Girondins carry it. With the extreme Patriot again,
      with the indigent millions, especially with the Population of
      Paris who do not read so much as hear and see, the Girondins
      altogether lose it, and the Mountain carries it.

      Egoism, nor meanness of mind, is not wanting on either side.
      Surely not on the Girondin side; where in fact the instinct of
      self-preservation, too prominently unfolded by circumstances,
      cuts almost a sorry figure; where also a certain finesse, to the
      length even of shuffling and shamming, now and then shews itself.
      They are men skilful in Advocate-fence. They have been called the
      Jesuits of the Revolution;[613] but that is too hard a name. It
      must be owned likewise that this rude blustering Mountain has a
      sense in it of what the Revolution means; which these eloquent
      Girondins are totally void of. Was the Revolution made, and
      fought for, against the world, these four weary years, that a
      Formula might be substantiated; that Society might become
      _methodic_, demonstrable by logic; and the old Noblesse with
      their pretensions vanish? Or ought it not withal to bring some
      glimmering of light and alleviation to the Twenty-five Millions,
      who sat in darkness, heavy-laden, till they rose with pikes in
      their hands? At least and lowest, one would think, it should
      bring them a proportion of bread to live on? There is in the
      Mountain here and there; in Marat People’s-friend; in the
      incorruptible Seagreen himself, though otherwise so lean and
      formularly, a heartfelt knowledge of this latter fact;—without
      which knowledge all other knowledge here is naught, and the
      choicest forensic eloquence is as sounding brass and a tinkling
      cymbal. Most cold, on the other hand, most patronising,
      unsubstantial is the tone of the Girondins towards “our poorer
      brethren;”—those brethren whom one often hears of under the
      collective name of “the masses,” as if they were not persons at
      all, but mounds of combustible explosive material, for blowing
      down Bastilles with! In very truth, a Revolutionist of this kind,
      is he not a Solecism? Disowned by Nature and Art; deserving only
      to be erased, and disappear! Surely, to our poorer brethren of
      Paris, all this Girondin patronage sounds deadening and killing:
      if fine-spoken and incontrovertible in logic, then all the
      falser, all the hatefuller in fact.

      Nay doubtless, pleading for Popularity, here among our poorer
      brethren of Paris, the Girondin has a hard game to play. If he
      gain the ear of the Respectable at a distance, it is by insisting
      on September and such like; it is at the expense of this Paris
      where he dwells and perorates. Hard to perorate in such an
      auditory! Wherefore the question arises: Could we not get
      ourselves out of this Paris? Twice or oftener such an attempt is
      made. If not we ourselves, thinks Guadet, then at least our
      _Suppléans_ might do it. For every Deputy has his _Suppléant_, or
      Substitute, who will take his place if need be: might not these
      assemble, say at Bourges, which is a quiet episcopal Town, in
      quiet Berri, forty good leagues off? In that case, what profit
      were it for the Paris Sansculottery to insult us; our _Suppléans_
      sitting quiet in Bourges, to whom we could run? Nay even the
      Primary electoral Assemblies, thinks Guadet, might be reconvoked,
      and a New Convention got, with new orders from the Sovereign
      people; and right glad were Lyons, were Bourdeaux, Rouen,
      Marseilles, as yet Provincial Towns, to welcome us in their turn,
      and become a sort of Capital Towns; and teach these Parisians
      reason.

      Fond schemes; which all misgo! If decreed, in heat of eloquent
      logic, today, they are repealed, by clamour, and passionate wider
      considerations, on the morrow.[614] Will you, O Girondins, parcel
      us into separate Republics, then; like the Swiss, like your
      Americans; so that there be no Metropolis or indivisible French
      Nation any more? Your Departmental Guard seemed to point that
      way! Federal Republic? Federalist? Men and Knitting-women repeat
      _Fédéraliste_, with or without much Dictionary-meaning; but go on
      repeating it, as is usual in such cases, till the meaning of it
      becomes almost magical, fit to designate all mystery of Iniquity;
      and _Fédéraliste_ has grown a word of Exorcism and
      _Apage-Satanas_. But furthermore, consider what “poisoning of
      public opinion” in the Departments, by these Brissot, Gorsas,
      Caritat-Condorcet Newspapers! And then also what
      counter-poisoning, still feller in quality, by a _Père Duchesne_
      of Hébert, brutallest Newspaper yet published on Earth; by a
      _Rougiff_ of Guffroy; by the “incendiary leaves of Marat!” More
      than once, on complaint given and effervescence rising, it is
      decreed that a man cannot both be Legislator and Editor; that he
      shall choose between the one function and the other.[615] But
      this too, which indeed could help little, is revoked or eluded;
      remains a pious wish mainly.

      Meanwhile, as the sad fruit of such strife, behold, O ye National
      Representatives, how between the friends of Law and the friends
      of Freedom everywhere, mere heats and jealousies have arisen;
      fevering the whole Republic! Department, Provincial Town is set
      against Metropolis, Rich against Poor, Culottic against
      Sansculottic, man against man. From the Southern Cities come
      Addresses of an almost inculpatory character; for Paris has long
      suffered Newspaper calumny. Bourdeaux demands a reign of Law and
      Respectability, meaning Girondism, with emphasis. With emphasis
      Marseilles demands the like. Nay from Marseilles there come _two_
      Addresses: one Girondin; one Jacobin Sansculottic. Hot Rebecqui,
      sick of this Convention-work, has given place to his Substitute,
      and gone home; where also, with such jarrings, there is work to
      be sick of.

      Lyons, a place of Capitalists and Aristocrats, is in still worse
      state; almost in revolt. Chalier the Jacobin Town-Councillor has
      got, too literally, to daggers-drawn with Nièvre-Chol the
      _Modératin_ Mayor; one of your Moderate, perhaps Aristocrat,
      Royalist or Federalist Mayors! Chalier, who pilgrimed to Paris
      “to behold Marat and the Mountain,” has verily kindled himself at
      their sacred urn: for on the 6th of February last, History or
      Rumour has seen him haranguing his Lyons Jacobins in a quite
      transcendental manner, with a drawn dagger in his hand;
      recommending (they say) sheer September-methods, patience being
      worn out; and that the Jacobin Brethren should, impromptu, work
      the Guillotine themselves! One sees him still, in Engravings:
      mounted on a table; foot advanced, body contorted; a bald, rude,
      slope-browed, infuriated visage of the canine species, the eyes
      starting from their sockets; in his puissant right-hand the
      brandished dagger, or horse-pistol, as some give it; other
      dog-visages kindling under him:—a man not likely to end well!
      However, the Guillotine was _not_ got together impromptu, that
      day, “on the Pont Saint-Clair,” or elsewhere; but indeed
      continued lying rusty in its loft:[616] Nièvre-Chol with military
      went about, rumbling cannon, in the most confused manner; and the
      “nine hundred prisoners” received no hurt. So distracted is Lyons
      grown, with its cannon rumbling. Convention Commissioners must be
      sent thither forthwith: if even they can appease it, and keep the
      Guillotine in its loft?

      Consider finally if, on all these mad jarrings of the Southern
      Cities, and of France generally, a traitorous Crypto-Royalist
      class is not looking and watching; ready to strike in, at the
      right season! Neither is there bread; neither is there soap: see
      the Patriot women selling out sugar, at a just rate of twenty-two
      sous per pound! Citizen Representatives, it were verily well that
      your quarrels finished, and the reign of Perfect Felicity began.


      Chapter 3.3.III.
      Growing Shrill.

      On the whole, one cannot say that the Girondins are wanting to
      themselves, so far as good-will might go. They prick assiduously
      into the sore-places of the Mountain; from principle, and also
      from jesuitism.

      Besides September, of which there is now little to be made except
      effervescence, we discern two sore-places where the Mountain
      often suffers: Marat and Orléans Egalité. Squalid Marat, for his
      own sake and for the Mountain’s, is assaulted ever and anon; held
      up to France, as a squalid bloodthirsty Portent, inciting to the
      pillage of shops; of whom let the Mountain have the credit! The
      Mountain murmurs, ill at ease: this “Maximum of Patriotism,” how
      shall they either own him or disown him? As for Marat personally,
      he, with his fixed-idea, remains invulnerable to such things: nay
      the People’s-friend is very evidently rising in importance, as
      his befriended People rises. No shrieks now, when he goes to
      speak; occasional applauses rather, furtherance which breeds
      confidence. The day when the Girondins proposed to “decree him
      accused” (_décréter d’accusation_, as they phrase it) for that
      February Paragraph, of “hanging up a Forestaller or two at the
      door-lintels,” Marat proposes to have _them_ “decreed insane;”
      and, descending the Tribune-steps, is heard to articulate these
      most unsenatorial ejaculations: ‘_Les Cochons, les imbecilles_,
      Pigs, idiots!’ Oftentimes he croaks harsh sarcasm, having really
      a rough rasping tongue, and a very deep fund of contempt for fine
      outsides; and once or twice, he even laughs, nay “explodes into
      laughter, _rit aux éclats_,” at the gentilities and superfine
      airs of these Girondin ‘men of statesmanship,’ with their
      pedantries, plausibilities, pusillanimities: ‘these two years,’
      says he, ‘you have been whining about attacks, and plots, and
      danger from Paris; and you have not a scratch to shew for
      yourselves.’[617]—Danton gruffly rebukes him, from time to time:
      a Maximum of Patriotism, whom one can neither own nor disown!

      But the second sore-place of the Mountain is this anomalous
      Monseigneur Equality Prince d’Orléans. Behold these men, says the
      Gironde; with a whilom Bourbon Prince among them: they are
      creatures of the D’Orléans Faction; they will have Philippe made
      King; one King no sooner guillotined than another made in his
      stead! Girondins have moved, Buzot moved long ago, from principle
      and also from jesuitism, that the whole race of Bourbons should
      be marched forth from the soil of France; this Prince Egalité to
      bring up the rear. Motions which might produce some effect on the
      public;—which the Mountain, ill at ease, knows not what to do
      with.

      And poor Orléans Egalité himself, for one begins to pity even
      him, what does he do with them? The disowned of all parties, the
      rejected and foolishly be-drifted hither and hither, to what
      corner of Nature can he now drift with advantage? Feasible hope
      remains not for him: unfeasible hope, in pallid doubtful
      glimmers, there may still come, bewildering, not cheering or
      illuminating,—from the Dumouriez quarter; and how, if not the
      timewasted Orléans Egalité, then perhaps the young unworn
      Chartres Egalité might rise to be a kind of King? Sheltered, if
      shelter it be, in the clefts of the Mountain, poor Egalité will
      wait: one refuge in Jacobinism, one in Dumouriez and
      Counter-Revolution, are there not two chances? However, the look
      of him, Dame Genlis says, is grown gloomy; sad to see. Sillery
      also, the Genlis’s Husband, who hovers about the Mountain, not on
      it, is in a bad way. Dame Genlis has come to Raincy, out of
      England and Bury St. Edmunds, in these days; being summoned by
      Egalité, with her young charge, Mademoiselle Egalité, that so
      Mademoiselle might not be counted among Emigrants and hardly
      dealt with. But it proves a ravelled business: Genlis and charge
      find that they must retire to the Netherlands; must wait on the
      Frontiers for a week or two; till Monseigneur, by Jacobin help,
      get it wound up. “Next morning,” says Dame Genlis, “Monseigneur,
      gloomier than ever, gave me his arm, to lead me to the carriage.
      I was greatly troubled; Mademoiselle burst into tears; her Father
      was pale and trembling. After I had got seated, he stood
      immovable at the carriage-door, with his eyes fixed on me; his
      mournful and painful look seemed to implore pity;—‘_Adieu,
      Madame!_’ said he. The altered sound of his voice completely
      overcame me; not able to utter a word, I held out my hand; he
      grasped it close; then turning, and advancing sharply towards the
      postillions, he gave them a sign, and we rolled away.”[618]

      Nor are Peace-makers wanting; of whom likewise we mention two;
      one fast on the crown of the Mountain, the other not yet alighted
      anywhere: Danton and Barrère. Ingenious Barrère, Old-Constituent
      and Editor from the slopes of the Pyrenees, is one of the
      usefullest men of this Convention, in his way. Truth may lie on
      both sides, on either side, or on neither side; my friends, ye
      must give and take: for the rest, success to the winning side!
      This is the motto of Barrère. Ingenious, almost genial;
      quick-sighted, supple, graceful; a man that will prosper.
      Scarcely Belial in the assembled Pandemonium was plausibler to
      ear and eye. An indispensable man: in the great _Art of Varnish_
      he may be said to seek his fellow. Has there an explosion arisen,
      as many do arise, a confusion, unsightliness, which no tongue can
      speak of, nor eye look on; give it to Barrère; Barrère shall be
      Committee-Reporter of it; you shall see it transmute itself into
      a regularity, into the very beauty and improvement that was
      needed. Without one such man, we say, how were this Convention
      bested? Call him not, as exaggerative Mercier does, “the greatest
      liar in France:” nay it may be argued there is not truth enough
      in him to make a real lie of. Call him, with Burke, Anacreon of
      the Guillotine, and a man serviceable to this Convention.

      The other Peace-maker whom we name is Danton. Peace, O peace with
      one another! cries Danton often enough: Are we not alone against
      the world; a little band of brothers? Broad Danton is loved by
      all the Mountain; but they think him too easy-tempered, deficient
      in suspicion: he has stood between Dumouriez and much censure,
      anxious not to exasperate our only General: in the shrill tumult
      Danton’s strong voice reverberates, for union and pacification.
      Meetings there are; dinings with the Girondins: it is so
      pressingly essential that there be union. But the Girondins are
      haughty and respectable; this Titan Danton is not a man of
      Formulas, and there rests on him a shadow of September. ‘Your
      Girondins have no confidence in me:’ this is the answer a
      conciliatory Meillan gets from him; to all the arguments and
      pleadings this conciliatory Meillan can bring, the repeated
      answer is, ‘_Ils n’ont point de confiance_.’[619]—The tumult will
      get ever shriller; rage is growing pale.

      In fact, what a pang is it to the heart of a Girondin, this first
      withering probability that the despicable unphilosophic anarchic
      Mountain, after all, may triumph! Brutal Septemberers, a
      fifth-floor Tallien, “a Robespierre without an idea in his head,”
      as Condorcet says, “or a feeling in his heart:” and yet we, the
      flower of France, cannot stand against them; behold the sceptre
      departs from us; from us and goes to them! Eloquence,
      Philosophism, Respectability avail not: “against Stupidity the
      very gods fight to no purpose,

      “Mit der Dummheit kämpfen Götter selbst vergebens!”


      Shrill are the plaints of Louvet; his thin existence all
      acidified into rage, and preternatural insight of suspicion.
      Wroth is young Barbaroux; wroth and scornful. Silent, like a
      Queen with the aspic on her bosom, sits the wife of Roland;
      Roland’s Accounts never yet got audited, his name become a
      byword. Such is the fortune of war, especially of revolution. The
      great gulf of Tophet, and Tenth of August, opened itself at the
      magic of your eloquent voice; and lo now, it will not close at
      your voice! It is a dangerous thing such magic. The Magician’s
      Famulus got hold of the forbidden Book, and summoned a goblin:
      _Plait-il_, What is your will? said the Goblin. The Famulus,
      somewhat struck, bade him fetch water: the swift goblin fetched
      it, pail in each hand; but lo, would not cease fetching it!
      Desperate, the Famulus shrieks at him, smites at him, cuts him in
      two; lo, _two_ goblin water-carriers ply; and the house will be
      swum away in Deucalion Deluges.


      Chapter 3.3.IV.
      Fatherland in Danger.

      Or rather we will say, this Senatorial war might have lasted
      long; and Party tugging and throttling with Party might have
      suppressed and smothered one another, in the ordinary bloodless
      Parliamentary way; on one condition: that France had been at
      least able to exist, all the while. But this Sovereign People has
      a digestive faculty, and cannot do without bread. Also we are at
      war, and must have victory; at war with Europe, with Fate and
      Famine: and behold, in the spring of the year, all victory
      deserts us.

      Dumouriez had his outposts stretched as far as Aix-la-Chapelle,
      and the beautifullest plan for pouncing on Holland, by stratagem,
      flat-bottomed boats and rapid intrepidity; wherein too he had
      prospered so far; but unhappily could prosper no further.
      Aix-la-Chapelle is lost; Maestricht will not surrender to mere
      smoke and noise: the flat-bottomed boats must launch themselves
      again, and return the way they came. Steady now, ye rapidly
      intrepid men; retreat with firmness, Parthian-like! Alas, were it
      General Miranda’s fault; were it the War-minister’s fault; or
      were it Dumouriez’s own fault and that of Fortune: enough, there
      is nothing for it but retreat,—well if it be not even flight; for
      already terror-stricken cohorts and stragglers pour off, not
      waiting for order; flow disastrous, as many as ten thousand of
      them, without halt till they see France again.[620] Nay worse:
      Dumouriez himself is perhaps secretly turning traitor? Very sharp
      is the tone in which he writes to our Committees. Commissioners
      and Jacobin Pillagers have done such incalculable mischief;
      Hassenfratz sends neither cartridges nor clothing; shoes we have,
      deceptively “soled with wood and pasteboard.” Nothing in short is
      right. Danton and Lacroix, when it was they that were
      Commissioners, would needs join Belgium to France;—of which
      Dumouriez might have made the prettiest little Duchy for his own
      secret behoof! With all these things the General is wroth; and
      writes to us in a sharp tone. Who knows what this hot little
      General is meditating? Dumouriez Duke of Belgium or Brabant; and
      say, Egalité the Younger King of France: there were an end for
      our Revolution!—Committee of Defence gazes, and shakes its head:
      who except Danton, defective in suspicion, could still struggle
      to be of hope?

      And General Custine is rolling back from the Rhine Country;
      conquered Mentz will be reconquered, the Prussians gathering
      round to bombard it with shot and shell. Mentz may resist,
      Commissioner Merlin, the Thionviller, “making sallies, at the
      head of the besieged;”—resist to the death; but not longer than
      that. How sad a reverse for Mentz! Brave Foster, brave Lux
      planted Liberty-trees, amid _ça-ira_-ing music, in the snow-slush
      of last winter, there: and made Jacobin Societies; and got the
      Territory incorporated with France: they came hither to Paris, as
      Deputies or Delegates, and have their eighteen francs a-day: but
      see, before once the Liberty-Tree is got rightly in leaf, Mentz
      is changing into an explosive crater; vomiting fire, bevomited
      with fire!

      Neither of these men shall again see Mentz; they have come hither
      only to die. Foster has been round the Globe; he saw Cook perish
      under Owyhee clubs; but like this Paris he has yet seen or
      suffered nothing. Poverty escorts him: from home there can
      nothing come, except Job’s-news; the eighteen daily francs, which
      we here as Deputy or Delegate with difficulty “touch,” are in
      paper _assignats_, and sink fast in value. Poverty,
      disappointment, inaction, obloquy; the brave heart slowly
      breaking! Such is Foster’s lot. For the rest, Demoiselle
      Théroigne smiles on you in the Soirees; “a beautiful brownlocked
      face,” of an exalted temper; and contrives to keep her carriage.
      Prussian Trenck, the poor subterranean Baron, jargons and jangles
      in an unmelodious manner. Thomas Paine’s face is red-pustuled,
      “but the eyes uncommonly bright.” Convention Deputies ask you to
      dinner: very courteous; and “we all play at _plumsack_.”[621] “It
      is the Explosion and New-creation of a World,” says Foster; “and
      the actors in it, such small mean objects, buzzing round one like
      a handful of flies.”—

      Likewise there is war with Spain. Spain will advance through the
      gorges of the Pyrenees; rustling with Bourbon banners; jingling
      with artillery and menace. And England has donned the red coat;
      and marches, with Royal Highness of York,—whom some once spake of
      inviting to be our King. Changed that humour now: and ever more
      changing; till no hatefuller thing walk this Earth than a denizen
      of that tyrannous Island; and Pitt be declared and decreed, with
      effervescence, “_L’ennemi du genre humain_, The enemy of
      mankind;” and, very singular to say, you make an order that no
      Soldier of Liberty give quarter to an Englishman. Which order
      however, the Soldier of Liberty does but partially obey. We will
      take no Prisoners then, say the Soldiers of Liberty; they shall
      all be “Deserters” that we take.[622] It is a frantic order; and
      attended with inconvenience. For surely, if you give no quarter,
      the plain issue is that you will get none; and so the business
      become as broad as it was long.—Our “recruitment of Three Hundred
      Thousand men,” which was the decreed force for this year, is like
      to have work enough laid to its hand.

      So many enemies come wending on; penetrating through throats of
      Mountains, steering over the salt sea; towards all points of our
      territory; rattling chains at us. Nay worst of all: there is an
      enemy within our own territory itself. In the early days of
      March, the Nantes Postbags do not arrive; there arrive only
      instead of them Conjecture, Apprehension, bodeful wind of Rumour.
      The bodefullest proves true! Those fanatic Peoples of La Vendée
      will no longer keep under: their fire of insurrection, heretofore
      dissipated with difficulty, blazes out anew, after the King’s
      Death, as a wide conflagration; not riot, but civil war. Your
      Cathelineaus, your Stofflets, Charettes, are other men than was
      thought: behold how their Peasants, in mere russet and hodden,
      with their rude arms, rude array, with their fanatic Gaelic
      frenzy and wild-yelling battle-cry of _God and the King_, dash at
      us like a dark whirlwind; and blow the best-disciplined Nationals
      we can get into panic and _sauve-qui-peut!_ Field after field is
      theirs; one sees not where it will end. Commandant Santerre may
      be sent thither; but with non-effect; he might as well have
      returned and brewed beer.

      It has become peremptorily necessary that a National Convention
      cease arguing, and begin acting. Yield one party of you to the
      other, and do it swiftly. No theoretic outlook is here, but the
      close certainty of ruin; the very day that is passing over must
      be provided for.

      It was Friday the eighth of March when this Job’s-post from
      Dumouriez, thickly preceded and escorted by so many other
      Job’s-posts, reached the National Convention. Blank enough are
      most faces. Little will it avail whether our Septemberers be
      punished or go unpunished; if Pitt and Cobourg are coming in,
      with one punishment for us all; nothing now between Paris itself
      and the Tyrants but a doubtful Dumouriez, and hosts in
      loose-flowing loud retreat!—Danton the Titan rises in this hour,
      as always in the hour of need. Great is his voice, reverberating
      from the domes:—Citizen-Representatives, shall we not, in such
      crisis of Fate, lay aside discords? Reputation: O what is the
      reputation of this man or of that? _Que mon nom soit flétri, que
      la France soit libre_, Let my name be blighted; let France be
      free! It is necessary now again that France rise, in swift
      vengeance, with her million right-hands, with her heart as of one
      man. Instantaneous recruitment in Paris; let every Section of
      Paris furnish its thousands; every section of France! Ninety-six
      Commissioners of us, two for each Section of the Forty-eight,
      they must go forthwith, and tell Paris what the Country needs of
      her. Let Eighty more of us be sent, post-haste, over France; to
      spread the fire-cross, to call forth the might of men. Let the
      Eighty also be on the road, before this sitting rise. Let them
      go, and think what their errand is. Speedy Camp of Fifty thousand
      between Paris and the North Frontier; for Paris will pour forth
      her volunteers! Shoulder to shoulder; one strong universal
      death-defiant rising and rushing; we shall hurl back these Sons
      of Night yet again; and France, in spite of the world, be
      free![623]—So sounds the Titan’s voice: into all Section-houses;
      into all French hearts. Sections sit in Permanence, for
      recruitment, enrolment, that very night. Convention
      Commissioners, on swift wheels, are carrying the fire-cross from
      Town to Town, till all France blaze.

      And so there is Flag of _Fatherland in Danger_ waving from the
      Townhall, Black Flag from the top of Notre-Dame Cathedral; there
      is Proclamation, hot eloquence; Paris rushing out once again to
      strike its enemies down. That, in such circumstances, Paris was
      in no mild humour can be conjectured. Agitated streets; still
      more agitated round the Salle de Manége! Feuillans-Terrace crowds
      itself with angry Citizens, angrier Citizenesses; Varlet
      perambulates with portable-chair: ejaculations of no measured
      kind, as to perfidious fine-spoken _Hommes d’état_, friends of
      Dumouriez, secret-friends of Pitt and Cobourg, burst from the
      hearts and lips of men. To fight the enemy? Yes, and even to
      ‘freeze him with terror, _glacer d’effroi;_’ but first to have
      domestic Traitors punished! Who are they that, carping and
      quarrelling, in their jesuitic most _moderate_ way, seek to
      shackle the Patriotic movement? That divide France against Paris,
      and poison public opinion in the Departments? That when we ask
      for bread, and a Maximum fixed-price, treat us with lectures on
      Free-trade in grains? Can the human stomach satisfy itself with
      lectures on Free-trade; and are we to fight the Austrians in a
      moderate manner, or in an immoderate? This Convention must be
      _purged_.

      ‘Set up a swift Tribunal for Traitors, a Maximum for Grains:’
      thus speak with energy the Patriot Volunteers, as they defile
      through the Convention Hall, just on the wing to the
      Frontiers;—perorating in that heroical Cambyses’ vein of theirs:
      beshouted by the Galleries and Mountain; bemurmured by the
      Right-side and Plain. Nor are prodigies wanting: lo, while a
      Captain of the Section Poissonnière perorates with vehemence
      about Dumouriez, Maximum, and Crypto-Royalist Traitors, and his
      troop beat chorus with him, waving their Banner overhead, the eye
      of a Deputy discerns, in this same Banner, that the _cravates_ or
      streamers of it have Royal fleurs-de-lys! The Section-Captain
      shrieks; his troop shriek, horror-struck, and “trample the Banner
      under foot:” seemingly the work of some Crypto-Royalist Plotter?
      Most probable;[62]—or perhaps at bottom, only the _old_ Banner of
      the Section, manufactured prior to the Tenth of August, when such
      streamers were according to rule![625]

      History, looking over the Girondin Memoirs, anxious to
      disentangle the truth of them from the hysterics, finds these
      days of March, especially this Sunday the Tenth of March, play a
      great part. Plots, plots: a plot for murdering the Girondin
      Deputies; Anarchists and Secret-Royalists plotting, in hellish
      concert, for that end! The far greater part of which is
      hysterics. What we do find indisputable is that Louvet and
      certain Girondins were apprehensive they might be murdered on
      Saturday, and did not go to the evening sitting: but held council
      with one another, each inciting his fellow to do something
      resolute, and end these Anarchists: to which, however, Pétion,
      opening the window, and finding the night very wet, answered
      only, ‘_Ils ne feront rien_,’ and “composedly resumed his
      violin,” says Louvet:[626] thereby, with soft Lydian
      tweedledeeing, to wrap himself against eating cares. Also that
      Louvet felt especially liable to being killed; that several
      Girondins went abroad to seek beds: liable to being killed; but
      were not. Further that, in very truth, Journalist Deputy Gorsas,
      poisoner of the Departments, he and his Printer had their houses
      broken into (by a tumult of Patriots, among whom red-capped
      Varlet, American Fournier loom forth, in the darkness of the rain
      and riot); had their wives put in fear; their presses, types and
      circumjacent equipments beaten to ruin; no Mayor interfering in
      time; Gorsas himself escaping, pistol in hand, “along the coping
      of the back wall.” Further that Sunday, the morrow, was not a
      workday; and the streets were more agitated than ever: Is it a
      new September, then, that these Anarchists intend? Finally, that
      no September came;—and also that hysterics, not unnaturally, had
      reached almost their acme.[627]

      Vergniaud denounces and deplores; in sweetly turned periods.
      Section Bonconseil, _Good-counsel_ so-named, not Mauconseil or
      _Ill-counsel_ as it once was,—does a far notabler thing: demands
      that Vergniaud, Brissot, Guadet, and other denunciatory
      fine-spoken Girondins, to the number of Twenty-two, be put under
      arrest! Section Good-counsel, so named ever since the Tenth of
      August, is sharply rebuked, like a Section of Ill-counsel;[628]
      but its word is spoken, and will not fall to the ground.

      In fact, one thing strikes us in these poor Girondins; their
      fatal shortness of vision; nay fatal poorness of character, for
      that is the root of it. They are as strangers to the People they
      would govern; to the thing they have come to work in. Formulas,
      Philosophies, Respectabilities, what has been written in Books,
      and admitted by the Cultivated Classes; _this_ inadequate
      _Scheme_ of Nature’s working is all that Nature, let her work as
      she will, can reveal to these men. So they perorate and
      speculate; and call on the Friends of Law, when the question is
      not Law or No-Law, but Life or No-Life. Pedants of the
      Revolution, if not Jesuits of it! Their Formalism is great; great
      also is their Egoism. France rising to fight Austria has been
      raised only by Plot of the Tenth of March, to kill Twenty-two of
      _them!_ This Revolution Prodigy, unfolding itself into terrific
      stature and articulation, by its own laws and Nature’s, not by
      the laws of Formula, has become unintelligible, incredible as an
      impossibility, the waste chaos of a Dream.” A Republic founded on
      what they call the Virtues; on what we call the Decencies and
      Respectabilities: this they will have, and nothing but this.
      Whatsoever other Republic Nature and Reality send, shall be
      considered as not sent; as a kind of Nightmare Vision, and thing
      non-extant; disowned by the Laws of Nature, and of Formula. Alas!
      Dim for the best eyes is this Reality; and as for these men, they
      will not look at it with eyes at all, but only through “facetted
      spectacles” of Pedantry, wounded Vanity; which yield the most
      portentous fallacious spectrum. Carping and complaining forever
      of Plots and Anarchy, they will do one thing: prove, to
      demonstration, that the Reality will not translate into their
      Formula; that they and their Formula are incompatible with the
      Reality: and, in its dark wrath, the Reality will extinguish it
      and them! What a man _kens_ he _cans_. But the beginning of a
      man’s doom is that vision be withdrawn from him; that he see not
      the reality, but a false spectrum of the reality; and, following
      that, step darkly, with more or less velocity, downwards to the
      utter Dark; to Ruin, which is the great Sea of Darkness, whither
      all falsehoods, winding or direct, continually flow!

      This Tenth of March we may mark as an epoch in the Girondin
      destinies; the rage so exasperated itself, the misconception so
      darkened itself. Many desert the sittings; many come to them
      armed.[629] An honourable Deputy, setting out after breakfast,
      must now, besides taking his Notes, see whether his Priming is in
      order.

      Meanwhile with Dumouriez in Belgium it fares ever worse. Were it
      again General Miranda’s fault, or some other’s fault, there is no
      doubt whatever but the “Battle of Nerwinden,” on the 18th of
      March, is lost; and our rapid retreat has become a far too rapid
      one. Victorious Cobourg, with his Austrian prickers, hangs like a
      dark cloud on the rear of us: Dumouriez never off horseback night
      or day; engagement every three hours; our whole discomfited Host
      rolling rapidly inwards, full of rage, suspicion, and
      _sauve-qui-peut!_ And then Dumouriez himself, what his intents
      may be? Wicked seemingly and not charitable! His despatches to
      Committee openly denounce a factious Convention, for the woes it
      has brought on France and him. And his speeches—for the General
      has no reticence! The Execution of the Tyrant this Dumouriez
      calls the Murder of the King. Danton and Lacroix, flying thither
      as Commissioners once more, return very doubtful; even Danton now
      doubts.

      Three Jacobin Missionaries, Proly, Dubuisson, Pereyra, have flown
      forth; sped by a wakeful Mother Society: they are struck dumb to
      hear the General speak. The Convention, according to this
      General, consists of three hundred scoundrels and four hundred
      imbeciles: France cannot do without a King. ‘But we have executed
      our King.’ ‘And what is it to me,’ hastily cries Dumouriez, a
      General of no reticence, ‘whether the King’s name be _Ludovicus_
      or _Jacobus?_’ ‘Or _Philippus!_’ rejoins Proly;—and hastens to
      report progress. Over the Frontiers such hope is there.


      Chapter 3.3.V.
      Sansculottism Accoutred.

      Let us look, however, at the grand internal Sansculottism and
      Revolution Prodigy, whether it stirs and waxes: there and not
      elsewhere hope may still be for France. The Revolution Prodigy,
      as Decree after Decree issues from the Mountain, like creative
      _fiats_, accordant with the nature of the Thing,—is shaping
      itself rapidly, in these days, into terrific stature and
      articulation, limb after limb. Last March, 1792, we saw all
      France flowing in blind terror; shutting town-barriers, boiling
      pitch for Brigands: happier, this March, that it is a seeing
      terror; that a creative Mountain exists, which can say _fiat!_
      Recruitment proceeds with fierce celerity: nevertheless our
      Volunteers hesitate to set out, till Treason be punished at home;
      they do not fly to the frontiers; but only fly hither and
      thither, demanding and denouncing. The Mountain must speak new
      _fiat_, and new _fiats_.

      And does it not speak such? Take, as first example, those
      _Comités Révolutionnaires_ for the arrestment of Persons Suspect.
      Revolutionary Committee, of Twelve chosen Patriots, sits in every
      Township of France; examining the Suspect, seeking arms, making
      domiciliary visits and arrestments;—caring, generally, that the
      Republic suffer no detriment. Chosen by universal suffrage, each
      in its Section, they are a kind of elixir of Jacobinism; some
      Forty-four Thousand of them awake and alive over France! In Paris
      and all Towns, every house-door must have the names of the
      inmates legibly printed on it, “at a height not exceeding five
      feet from the ground;” every Citizen must produce his
      certificatory _Carte de Civisme_, signed by Section-President;
      every man be ready to give account of the faith that is in him.
      Persons Suspect had as well depart this soil of Liberty! And yet
      departure too is bad: all Emigrants are declared Traitors, their
      property become National; they are “dead in Law,”—save indeed
      that for _our_ behoof they shall “live yet fifty years in Law,”
      and what heritages may fall to them in that time become National
      too! A mad vitality of Jacobinism, with Forty-four Thousand
      centres of activity, circulates through all fibres of France.

      Very notable also is the _Tribunal Extraordinaire:_[630] decreed
      by the Mountain; some Girondins dissenting, for surely such a
      Court contradicts every formula;—other Girondins assenting, nay
      co-operating, for do not we all hate Traitors, O ye people of
      Paris?—Tribunal of the Seventeenth in Autumn last was swift; but
      this shall be swifter. Five Judges; a standing Jury, which is
      named from Paris and the Neighbourhood, that there be not delay
      in naming it: they are subject to no Appeal; to hardly any
      Law-forms, but must “get themselves convinced” in all readiest
      ways; and for security are bound “to vote audibly;” audibly, in
      the hearing of a Paris Public. This is the _Tribunal
      Extraordinaire;_ which, in few months, getting into most lively
      action, shall be entitled _Tribunal Revolutionnaire;_ as indeed
      it from the very first has entitled itself: with a Herman or a
      Dumas for Judge President, with a Fouquier-Tinville for
      Attorney-General, and a Jury of such as Citizen Leroi, who has
      surnamed himself _Dix-Août_, “Leroi _August-Tenth_,” it will
      become the wonder of the world. Herein has Sansculottism
      fashioned for itself a Sword of Sharpness: a weapon magical;
      tempered in the Stygian hell-waters; to the edge of it all
      armour, and defence of strength or of cunning shall be soft; it
      shall mow down Lives and Brazen-gates; and the waving of it shed
      terror through the souls of men.

      But speaking of an amorphous Sansculottism taking form, ought we
      not above all things to specify how the Amorphous gets itself a
      Head? Without metaphor, this Revolution Government continues
      hitherto in a very anarchic state. Executive Council of
      Ministers, Six in number, there is; but they, especially since
      Roland’s retreat, have hardly known whether they were Ministers
      or not. Convention Committees sit supreme over them; but then
      each Committee as supreme as the others: Committee of Twenty-one,
      of Defence, of General Surety; simultaneous or successive, for
      specific purposes. The Convention alone is
      all-powerful,—especially if the Commune go with it; but is too
      numerous for an administrative body. Wherefore, in this perilous
      quick-whirling condition of the Republic, before the end of
      March, we obtain our small _Comité de Salut Public;_[631] as it
      were, for miscellaneous accidental purposes, requiring
      despatch;—as it proves, for a sort of universal supervision, and
      universal subjection. They are to report weekly, these new
      Committee-men; but to deliberate in secret. Their number is Nine,
      firm Patriots all, Danton one of them: Renewable every month;—yet
      why not reelect them if they turn out well? The flower of the
      matter is that they are but nine; that they sit in secret. An
      insignificant-looking thing at first, this Committee; but with a
      principle of growth in it! Forwarded by fortune, by internal
      Jacobin energy, it will reduce all Committees and the Convention
      itself to mute obedience, the Six Ministers to Six assiduous
      Clerks; and work its will on the Earth and under Heaven, for a
      season. “A Committee of Public Salvation,” whereat the world
      still shrieks and shudders.

      If we call that Revolutionary Tribunal a Sword, which
      Sansculottism has provided for itself, then let us call the “Law
      of the Maximum,” a Provender-scrip, or Haversack, wherein better
      or worse some ration of bread may be found. It is true, Political
      Economy, Girondin free-trade, and all law of supply and demand,
      are hereby hurled topsyturvy: but what help? Patriotism must
      live; the “cupidity of farmers” seems to have no bowels.
      Wherefore this Law of the Maximum, fixing the highest price of
      grains, is, with infinite effort, got passed;[632] and shall
      gradually extend itself into a Maximum for all manner of
      _comestibles_ and commodities: with such scrambling and
      topsyturvying as may be fancied! For now, if, for example, the
      farmer will not sell? The farmer shall be forced to sell. An
      accurate Account of what grain he has shall be delivered in to
      the Constituted Authorities: let him see that he say not too
      much; for in that case, his rents, taxes and contributions will
      rise proportionally: let him see that he say not too little; for,
      on or before a set day, we shall suppose in April, _less_ than
      one-third of this declared quantity, must remain in his barns,
      more than two-thirds of it must have been thrashed and sold. One
      can denounce him, and raise penalties.

      By such inextricable overturning of all Commercial relation will
      Sansculottism keep life in; since not otherwise. On the whole, as
      Camille Desmoulins says once, ‘while the Sansculottes fight, the
      Monsieurs must pay.’ So there come _Impôts Progressifs_,
      Ascending Taxes; which consume, with fast-increasing voracity,
      and “superfluous-revenue’ of men: beyond fifty-pounds a-year you
      are not exempt; rising into the hundreds you bleed freely; into
      the thousands and tens of thousands, you bleed gushing. Also
      there come Requisitions; there comes “Forced-Loan of a Milliard,”
      some Fifty-Millions Sterling; which of course they that _have_
      must lend. Unexampled enough: it has grown to be no country for
      the Rich, this; but a country for the Poor! And then if one fly,
      what steads it? Dead in Law; nay kept alive fifty years yet, for
      _their_ accursed behoof! In this manner, therefore, it goes;
      topsyturvying, _ça-ira_-ing;—and withal there is endless sale of
      Emigrant National-Property, there is Cambon with endless
      cornucopia of Assignats. The Trade and Finance of Sansculottism;
      and how, with Maximum and Bakers’-queues, with Cupidity, Hunger,
      Denunciation and Paper-money, it led its galvanic-life, and began
      and ended,—remains the most interesting of all Chapters in
      Political Economy: still to be written.

      All which things are they not clean against Formula? O Girondin
      Friends, it is not a Republic of the Virtues we are getting; but
      only a Republic of the Strengths, virtuous and other!


      Chapter 3.3.VI.
      The Traitor.

      But Dumouriez, with his fugitive Host, with his King _Ludovicus_
      or King _Philippus?_ There lies the crisis; there hangs the
      question: Revolution Prodigy, or Counter-Revolution?—One wide
      shriek covers that North-East region. Soldiers, full of rage,
      suspicion and terror, flock hither and thither; Dumouriez the
      many-counselled, never off horseback, knows now no counsel that
      were not worse than none: the counsel, namely, of joining himself
      with Cobourg; marching to Paris, extinguishing Jacobinism, and,
      with some new King Ludovicus or King Philippus, resting the
      Constitution of 1791![633]

      Is Wisdom quitting Dumouriez; the herald of Fortune quitting him?
      Principle, faith political or other, beyond a certain faith of
      mess-rooms, and honour of an officer, had him not to quit. At any
      rate, his quarters in the Burgh of Saint-Amand; his headquarters
      in the Village of Saint-Amand des Boues, a short way off,—have
      become a Bedlam. National Representatives, Jacobin Missionaries
      are riding and running: of the “three Towns,” Lille, Valenciennes
      or even Condé, which Dumouriez wanted to snatch for himself, not
      one can be snatched: your Captain is admitted, but the Town-gate
      is closed on him, and then the Prison gate, and “his men wander
      about the ramparts.” Couriers gallop breathless; men wait, or
      seem waiting, to assassinate, to be assassinated; Battalions nigh
      frantic with such suspicion and uncertainty, with
      _Vive-la-République_ and _Sauve-qui-peut_, rush this way and
      that;—Ruin and Desperation in the shape of Cobourg lying
      entrenched close by.

      Dame Genlis and her fair Princess d’Orléans find this Burgh of
      Saint-Amand no fit place for them; Dumouriez’s protection is
      grown worse than none. Tough Genlis one of the toughest women; a
      woman, as it were, with nine lives in her; whom nothing will
      beat: she packs her bandboxes; clear for flight in a private
      manner. Her beloved Princess she will—leave here, with the Prince
      Chartres Egalité her Brother. In the cold grey of the April
      morning, we find her accordingly established in her hired
      vehicle, on the street of Saint-Amand; postilions just cracking
      their whips to go,—when behold the young Princely Brother,
      struggling hitherward, hastily calling; bearing the Princess in
      his arms! Hastily he has clutched the poor young lady up, in her
      very night-gown, nothing saved of her goods except the watch from
      the pillow: with brotherly despair he flings her in, among the
      bandboxes, into Genlis’s chaise, into Genlis’s arms: Leave her
      not, in the name of Mercy and Heaven! A shrill scene, but a brief
      one:—the postilions crack and go. Ah, whither? Through by-roads
      and broken hill-passes: seeking their way with lanterns after
      nightfall; through perils, and Cobourg Austrians, and suspicious
      French Nationals; finally, into Switzerland; safe though nigh
      moneyless.[634] The brave young Egalité has a most wild Morrow to
      look for; but now only himself to carry through it.

      For indeed over at that Village named _of the Mudbaths_,
      Saint-Amand des Boues, matters are still worse. About four
      o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, the 2d of April 1793, two Couriers
      come galloping as if for life: _Mon Général!_ Four National
      Representatives, War-Minister at their head, are posting
      hitherward, from Valenciennes: are close at hand,—with what
      intents one may guess! While the Couriers are yet speaking,
      War-Minister and National Representatives, old Camus the
      Archivist for chief speaker of them, arrive. Hardly has _Mon
      Général_ had time to order out the Huzzar Regiment de Berchigny;
      that it take rank and wait near by, in case of accident. And so,
      enter War-Minister Beurnonville, with an embrace of friendship,
      for he is an old friend; enter Archivist Camus and the other
      three, following him.

      They produce Papers, invite the General to the bar of the
      Convention: merely to give an explanation or two. The General
      finds it unsuitable, not to say impossible, and that ‘the service
      will suffer.’ Then comes reasoning; the voice of the old
      Archivist getting loud. Vain to reason loud with this Dumouriez;
      he answers mere angry irreverences. And so, amid plumed
      staff-officers, very gloomy-looking; in jeopardy and uncertainty,
      these poor National messengers debate and consult, retire and
      re-enter, for the space of some two hours: without effect.
      Whereupon Archivist Camus, getting quite loud, proclaims, in the
      name of the National Convention, for he has the power to do it,
      That General Dumouriez is _arrested:_ ‘Will you obey the National
      Mandate, General!’ ‘_Pas dans ce moment-ci_, Not at this
      particular moment,’ answers the General also aloud; then glancing
      the other way, utters certain unknown vocables, in a mandatory
      manner; seemingly a German word-of-command.[635] Hussars clutch
      the Four National Representatives, and Beurnonville the
      War-minister; pack them out of the apartment; out of the Village,
      over the lines to Cobourg, in two chaises that very night,—as
      hostages, prisoners; to lie long in Maestricht and Austrian
      strongholds![636] J_acta est alea_.

      This night Dumouriez prints his “Proclamation;” this night and
      the morrow the Dumouriez Army, in such darkness visible, and rage
      of semi-desperation as there is, shall meditate what the General
      is doing, what they themselves will do in it. Judge whether this
      Wednesday was of halcyon nature, for any one! But, on the
      Thursday morning, we discern Dumouriez with small escort, with
      Chartres Egalité and a few staff-officers, ambling along the
      Condé Highway: perhaps they are for Condé, and trying to persuade
      the Garrison there; at all events, they are for an interview with
      Cobourg, who waits in the woods by appointment, in that quarter.
      Nigh the Village of Doumet, three National Battalions, a set of
      men always full of Jacobinism, sweep past us; marching rather
      swiftly,—seemingly in mistake, by a way we had not ordered. The
      General dismounts, steps into a cottage, a little from the
      wayside; will give them right order in writing. Hark! what
      strange growling is heard: what barkings are heard, loud yells of
      ‘_Traitors_,’ of ‘_Arrest:_’ the National Battalions have wheeled
      round, are emitting shot! Mount, Dumouriez, and spring for life!
      Dumouriez and Staff strike the spurs in, deep; vault over
      ditches, into the fields, which prove to be morasses; sprawl and
      plunge for life; bewhistled with curses and lead. Sunk to the
      middle, with or without horses, several servants killed, they
      escape out of shot-range, to General Mack the Austrian’s
      quarters. Nay they return on the morrow, to Saint-Amand and
      faithful foreign Berchigny; but what boots it? The Artillery has
      all revolted, is jingling off to Valenciennes: all have revolted,
      are revolting; except only foreign Berchigny, to the extent of
      some poor fifteen hundred, none will follow Dumouriez against
      France and Indivisible Republic: Dumouriez’s occupation’s
      gone.[637]

      Such an instinct of Frenehhood and Sansculottism dwells in these
      men: they will follow no Dumouriez nor Lafayette, nor any mortal
      on such errand. Shriek may be of _Sauve-qui-peut_, but will also
      be of _Vive-la-République_. New National Representatives arrive;
      new General Dampierre, soon killed in battle; new General
      Custine; the agitated Hosts draw back to some Camp of Famars;
      make head against Cobourg as they can.

      And so Dumouriez is in the Austrian quarters; his drama ended, in
      this rather sorry manner. A most shifty, wiry man; one of
      Heaven’s Swiss that wanted only work. Fifty years of unnoticed
      toil and valour; one year of toil and valour, not unnoticed, but
      seen of all countries and centuries; then thirty other years
      again unnoticed, of Memoir-writing, English Pension, scheming and
      projecting to no purpose: Adieu thou Swiss of Heaven, worthy to
      have been something else!

      His Staff go different ways. Brave young Egalité reaches
      Switzerland and the Genlis Cottage; with a strong crabstick in
      his hand, a strong heart in his body: his Princedom in now
      reduced to that. Egalité the Father sat playing whist, in his
      Palais Egalité, at Paris, on the 6th day of this same month of
      April, when a catchpole entered: Citoyen Egalité is wanted at the
      Convention Committee![638] Examination, requiring Arrestment;
      finally requiring Imprisonment, transference to Marseilles and
      the Castle of If! Orléansdom has sunk in the black waters; Palais
      Egalité, which was Palais Royal, is like to become Palais
      National.


      Chapter 3.3.VII.
      In Fight.

      Our Republic, by paper Decree, may be “One and Indivisible;” but
      what profits it while these things are? Federalists in the
      Senate, renegadoes in the Army, traitors everywhere! France, all
      in desperate recruitment since the Tenth of March, does not fly
      to the frontier, but only flies hither and thither. This
      defection of contemptuous diplomatic Dumouriez falls heavy on the
      fine-spoken high-sniffing _Hommes d’état_, whom he consorted
      with; forms a second epoch in their destinies.

      Or perhaps more strictly we might say, the second Girondin epoch,
      though little noticed then, began on the day when, in reference
      to this defection, the Girondins broke with Danton. It was the
      first day of April; Dumouriez had not yet plunged across the
      morasses to Cobourg, but was evidently meaning to do it, and our
      Commissioners were off to arrest him; when what does the Girondin
      Lasource see good to do, but rise, and jesuitically question and
      insinuate at great length, whether a main accomplice of Dumouriez
      had not probably been—Danton? Gironde grins sardonic assent;
      Mountain holds its breath. The figure of Danton, Levasseur says,
      while this speech went on, was noteworthy. He sat erect, with a
      kind of internal convulsion struggling to keep itself motionless;
      his eye from time to time flashing wilder, his lip curling in
      Titanic scorn.[639] Lasource, in a fine-spoken attorney-manner,
      proceeds: there is this probability to his mind, and there is
      that; probabilities which press painfully on him, which cast the
      Patriotism of Danton under a painful shade; which painful shade
      he, Lasource, will hope that Danton may find it not impossible to
      dispel.

      ‘_Les Scélérats!_’ cries Danton, starting up, with clenched
      right-hand, Lasource having done: and descends from the Mountain,
      like a lava-flood; his answer not unready. Lasource’s
      probabilities fly like idle dust; but leave a result behind them.
      ‘Ye were right, friends of the Mountain,’ begins Danton, ‘and I
      was wrong: there is no peace possible with these men. Let it be
      war then! They will not save the Republic with us: it shall be
      saved without them; saved in spite of them.’ Really a burst of
      rude Parliamentary eloquence this; which is still worth reading,
      in the old _Moniteur!_ With fire-words the exasperated rude Titan
      rives and smites these Girondins; at every hit the glad Mountain
      utters chorus: Marat, like a musical _bis_, repeating the last
      phrase.[640] Lasource’s probabilities are gone: but Danton’s
      pledge of battle remains lying.

      A third epoch, or scene in the Girondin Drama, or rather it is
      but the completion of this second epoch, we reckon from the day
      when the patience of virtuous Pétion finally boiled over; and the
      Girondins, so to speak, took up this battle-pledge of Danton’s
      and decreed Marat accused. It was the eleventh of the same month
      of April, on some effervescence rising, such as often rose; and
      President had covered himself, mere Bedlam now ruling; and
      Mountain and Gironde were rushing on one another with clenched
      right-hands, and even with pistols in them; when, behold, the
      Girondin Duperret drew a sword! Shriek of horror rose, instantly
      quenching all other effervescence, at sight of the clear
      murderous steel; whereupon Duperret returned it to the leather
      again;—confessing that he did indeed draw it, being instigated by
      a kind of sacred madness, ‘_sainte fureur_,’ and pistols held at
      him; but that if he parricidally had chanced to scratch the
      outmost skin of National Representation with it, he too carried
      pistols, and would have blown his brains out on the spot.[641]

      But now in such posture of affairs, virtuous Pétion rose, next
      morning, to lament these effervescences, this endless Anarchy
      invading the Legislative Sanctuary itself; and here, being
      growled at and howled at by the Mountain, his patience, long
      tried, did, as we say, boil over; and he spake vehemently, in
      high key, with foam on his lips; “whence,” says Marat, “I
      concluded he had got “_la rage_,” the rabidity, or dog-madness.
      Rabidity smites others rabid: so there rises new foam-lipped
      demand to have Anarchists extinguished; and specially to have
      Marat put under Accusation. Send a Representative to the
      Revolutionary Tribunal? Violate the inviolability of a
      Representative? Have a care, O Friends! This poor Marat has
      faults enough; but against Liberty or Equality, what fault? That
      he has loved and fought for it, not wisely but too well. In
      dungeons and cellars, in pinching poverty, under anathema of men;
      even so, in such fight, has he grown so dingy, bleared; even so
      has his head become a Stylites one! Him you will fling to your
      Sword of Sharpness; while Cobourg and Pitt advance on us,
      fire-spitting?

      The Mountain is loud, the Gironde is loud and deaf; all lips are
      foamy. With “Permanent-Session of twenty-four hours,” with vote
      by rollcall, and a dead-lift effort, the Gironde carries it:
      Marat is ordered to the Revolutionary Tribunal, to answer for
      that February Paragraph of Forestallers at the door-lintel, with
      other offences; and, after a little hesitation, he obeys.[642]

      Thus is Danton’s battle-pledge taken up: there is, as he said
      there would be, “war without truce or treaty, _ni trève ni
      composition_.” Wherefore, close now with one another, Formula and
      Reality, in death-grips, and wrestle it out; both of you cannot
      live, but only one!


      Chapter 3.3.VIII.
      In Death-Grips.

      It proves what strength, were it only of inertia, there is in
      established Formulas, what weakness in nascent Realities, and
      illustrates several things, that this death-wrestle should still
      have lasted some six weeks or more. National business, discussion
      of the Constitutional Act, for our Constitution should decidedly
      be got ready, proceeds along with it. We even change our
      Locality; we shift, on the Tenth of May, from the old Salle de
      Manége, into our new Hall, in the Palace, once a King’s but now
      the Republic’s, of the Tuileries. Hope and ruth, flickering
      against despair and rage, still struggles in the minds of men.

      It is a most dark confused death-wrestle, this of the six weeks.
      Formalist frenzy against Realist frenzy; Patriotism, Egoism,
      Pride, Anger, Vanity, Hope and Despair, all raised to the
      frenetic pitch: Frenzy meets Frenzy, like dark clashing
      whirlwinds; neither understands the other; the weaker, one day,
      will understand that _it_ is verily swept down! Girondism is
      strong as established Formula and Respectability: do not as many
      as Seventy-two of the Departments, or say respectable Heads of
      Departments, declare for us? Calvados, which loves its Buzot,
      will even rise in revolt, so hint the Addresses; Marseilles,
      cradle of Patriotism, will rise; Bourdeaux will rise, and the
      Gironde Department, as one man; in a word, who will _not_ rise,
      were our _Représentation Nationale_ to be insulted, or one hair
      of a Deputy’s head harmed! The Mountain, again, is strong as
      Reality and Audacity. To the Reality of the Mountain are not all
      furthersome things possible? A new Tenth of August, if needful;
      nay a new Second of September!—

      But, on Wednesday afternoon, twenty-fourth day of April, year
      1793, what tumult as of fierce jubilee is this? It is Marat
      returning from Revolutionary Tribunal! A week or more of
      death-peril: and now there is triumphant acquittal; Revolutionary
      Tribunal can find no accusation against this man. And so the eye
      of History beholds Patriotism, which had gloomed unutterable
      things all week, break into loud jubilee, embrace its Marat; lift
      him into a chair of triumph, bear him shoulder-high through the
      streets. Shoulder-high is the injured People’s-friend, crowned
      with an oak-garland; amid the wavy sea of red nightcaps,
      carmagnole jackets, grenadier bonnets and female mob-caps;
      far-sounding like a sea! The injured People’s-friend has here
      reached his culminating-point; he too strikes the stars with his
      sublime head.

      But the Reader can judge with what face President Lasource, he of
      the “painful probabilities,” who presides in this Convention
      Hall, might welcome such jubilee-tide, when it got thither, and
      the Decreed of Accusation floating on the top of it! A National
      Sapper, spokesman on the occasion, says, the People know their
      Friend, and love his life as their own; ‘whosoever wants Marat’s
      head must get the Sapper’s first.’[643] Lasource answered with
      some vague painful mumblement,—which, says Levasseur, one could
      not help tittering at.[644] Patriot Sections, Volunteers not yet
      gone to the Frontiers, come demanding the ‘purgation of traitors
      from your own bosom;’ the expulsion, or even the trial and
      sentence, of a factious Twenty-two.

      Nevertheless the Gironde has got its Commission of Twelve; a
      Commission specially appointed for investigating these troubles
      of the Legislative Sanctuary: let Sansculottism say what it will,
      Law shall triumph. Old-Constituent Rabaut Saint-Etienne presides
      over this Commission: ‘it is the last plank whereon a wrecked
      Republic may perhaps still save herself.’ Rabaut and they
      therefore sit, intent; examining witnesses; launching
      arrestments; looking out into a waste dim sea of troubles.—the
      womb of _Formula_, or perhaps her grave! Enter not that sea, O
      Reader! There are dim desolation and confusion; raging women and
      raging men. Sections come demanding Twenty-two; for the _number_
      first given by Section Bonconseil still holds, though the names
      should even vary. Other Sections, of the wealthier kind, come
      denouncing such demand; nay the same Section will demand today,
      and denounce the demand tomorrow, according as the wealthier sit,
      or the poorer. Wherefore, indeed, the Girondins decree that all
      Sections shall close “at ten in the evening;” before the working
      people come: which Decree remains without effect. And nightly the
      Mother of Patriotism wails doleful; doleful, but her eye
      kindling! And Fournier l’Americain is busy, and the two Banker
      Freys, and Varlet Apostle of Liberty; the bull-voice of Marquis
      Saint-Huruge is heard. And shrill women vociferate from all
      Galleries, the Convention ones and downwards. Nay a “Central
      Committee” of all the Forty-eight Sections, looms forth huge and
      dubious; sitting dim in the _Archevêché_, sending Resolutions,
      receiving them: a Centre of the Sections; in dread deliberation
      as to a New Tenth of August!

      One thing we will specify to throw light on many: the aspect
      under which, seen through the eyes of these Girondin Twelve, or
      even seen through one’s own eyes, the Patriotism of the softer
      sex presents itself. There are Female Patriots, whom the
      Girondins call Megaeras, and count to the extent of eight
      thousand; with serpent-hair, all out of curl; who have changed
      the distaff for the dagger. They are of “the Society called
      Brotherly,” _Fraternelle_, say _Sisterly_, which meets under the
      roof of the Jacobins. “Two thousand daggers,” or so, have been
      ordered,—doubtless, for them. They rush to Versailles, to raise
      more women; but the Versailles women will not rise.[645]

      Nay, behold, in National Garden of Tuileries,—Demoiselle
      Théroigne herself is become as a brownlocked Diana (were that
      possible) attacked by her own dogs, or she-dogs! The Demoiselle,
      keeping her carriage, is for Liberty indeed, as she has full well
      shewn; but then for Liberty with Respectability: whereupon these
      serpent-haired Extreme She-Patriots now do fasten on her, tatter
      her, shamefully fustigate her, in their shameful way; almost
      fling her into the Garden-ponds, had not help intervened. Help,
      alas, to small purpose. The poor Demoiselle’s head and
      nervous-system, none of the soundest, is so tattered and
      fluttered that it will never recover; but flutter worse and
      worse, till it crack; and within year and day we hear of her in
      madhouse, and straitwaistcoat, which proves permanent!—Such
      brownlocked Figure did flutter, and inarticulately jabber and
      gesticulate, little able to _speak_ the obscure meaning it had,
      through some segment of that Eighteenth Century of Time. She
      disappears here from the Revolution and Public History, for
      evermore.[646]

      Another thing we will not again specify, yet again beseech the
      Reader to imagine: the reign of Fraternity and Perfection.
      Imagine, we say, O Reader, that the Millennium were struggling on
      the threshold, and yet not so much as groceries could be
      had,—owing to traitors. With what impetus would a man strike
      traitors, in that case? Ah, thou canst not imagine it: thou hast
      thy groceries safe in the shops, and little or no hope of a
      Millennium ever coming!—But, indeed, as to the temper there was
      in men and women, does not this one fact say enough: the height
      SUSPICION had risen to? Preternatural we often called it;
      seemingly in the language of exaggeration: but listen to the cold
      deposition of witnesses. Not a musical Patriot can blow himself a
      snatch of melody from the French Horn, sitting mildly pensive on
      the housetop, but Mercier will recognise it to be a signal which
      one Plotting Committee is making to another. Distraction has
      possessed Harmony herself; lurks in the sound of _Marseillese_
      and _ça-ira_.[647] Louvet, who can see as deep into a millstone
      as the most, discerns that we shall be invited back to our old
      Hall of the Manege, by a Deputation; and then the Anarchists will
      massacre Twenty-two of us, as we walk over. It is Pitt and
      Cobourg; the gold of Pitt.—Poor Pitt! They little know what work
      he has with his own Friends of the People; getting them bespied,
      beheaded, their habeas-corpuses suspended, and his own Social
      Order and strong-boxes kept tight,—to fancy him raising mobs
      among his neighbours!

      But the strangest fact connected with French or indeed with human
      Suspicion, is perhaps this of Camille Desmoulins. Camille’s head,
      one of the clearest in France, has got itself so saturated
      through every fibre with Preternaturalism of Suspicion, that
      looking back on that Twelfth of July 1789, when the thousands
      rose round him, yelling responsive at his word in the Palais
      Royal Garden, and took cockades, he finds it explicable only on
      this hypothesis, That they were all hired to do it, and set on by
      the Foreign and other Plotters. “It was not for nothing,” says
      Camille with insight, “that this multitude burst up round me when
      I spoke!” No, not for nothing. Behind, around, before, it is one
      huge Preternatural Puppet-play of Plots; Pitt pulling the
      wires.[648] Almost I conjecture that I Camille myself am a Plot,
      and wooden with wires.—The force of insight could no further go.

      Be this as it will, History remarks that the Commission of
      Twelve, now clear enough as to the Plots; and luckily having “got
      the threads of them all by the end,” as they say,—are launching
      Mandates of Arrest rapidly in these May days; and carrying
      matters with a high hand; resolute that the sea of troubles shall
      be restrained. What chief Patriot, Section-President even, is
      safe? They can arrest him; tear him from his warm bed, because he
      has made irregular Section Arrestments! They arrest Varlet
      Apostle of Liberty. They arrest Procureur-Substitute Hébert,
      _Père Duchesne;_ a Magistrate of the People, sitting in Townhall;
      who, with high solemnity of martyrdom, takes leave of his
      colleagues; prompt he, to obey the Law; and solemnly acquiescent,
      disappears into prison.

      The swifter fly the Sections, energetically demanding him back;
      demanding not arrestment of Popular Magistrates, but of a
      traitorous Twenty-two. Section comes flying after
      Section;—defiling energetic, with their Cambyses’ vein of
      oratory: nay the Commune itself comes, with Mayor Pache at its
      head; and with question not of Hébert and the Twenty-two alone,
      but with this ominous old question made new, ‘Can you save the
      Republic, or must we do it?’ To whom President Max Isnard makes
      fiery answer: If by fatal chance, in any of those tumults which
      since the Tenth of March are ever returning, Paris were to lift a
      sacrilegious finger against the National Representation, France
      would rise as one man, in never-imagined vengeance, and shortly
      ‘the traveller would ask, on which side of the Seine Paris had
      stood!’[649] Whereat the Mountain bellows only louder, and every
      Gallery; Patriot Paris boiling round.

      And Girondin Valazé has nightly conclaves at his house; sends
      billets; “Come punctually, and well armed, for there is to be
      business.” And Megaera women perambulate the streets, with flags,
      with lamentable _alleleu_.[650] And the Convention-doors are
      obstructed by roaring multitudes: find-spoken _Hommes d’état_ are
      hustled, maltreated, as they pass; Marat will apostrophise you,
      in such death-peril, and say, Thou too art of them. If Roland ask
      leave to quit Paris, there is order of the day. What help?
      Substitute Hébert, Apostle Varlet, must be given back; to be
      crowned with oak-garlands. The Commission of Twelve, in a
      Convention overwhelmed with roaring Sections, is broken; then on
      the morrow, in a Convention of rallied Girondins, is reinstated.
      Dim Chaos, or the sea of troubles, is struggling through all its
      elements; writhing and chafing towards some creation.


      Chapter 3.3.IX.
      Extinct.

      Accordingly, on Friday, the Thirty-first of May 1793, there comes
      forth into the summer sunlight one of the strangest scenes. Mayor
      Pache with Municipality arrives at the Tuileries Hall of
      Convention; sent for, Paris being in visible ferment; and gives
      the strangest news.

      How, in the grey of this morning, while we sat Permanent in
      Townhall, watchful for the commonweal, there entered, precisely
      as on a Tenth of August, some Ninety-six extraneous persons; who
      declared themselves to be in a state of Insurrection; to be
      plenipotentiary Commissioners from the Forty-eight Sections,
      sections or members of the Sovereign People, all in a state of
      Insurrection; and further that we, in the name of said Sovereign
      in Insurrection, were dismissed from office. How we thereupon
      laid off our sashes, and withdrew into the adjacent Saloon of
      Liberty. How in a moment or two, we were called back; and
      reinstated; the Sovereign pleasing to think us still worthy of
      confidence. Whereby, having taken new oath of office, we on a
      sudden find ourselves Insurrectionary Magistrates, with
      extraneous Committee of Ninety-six sitting by us; and a Citoyen
      Henriot, one whom some accuse of Septemberism, is made
      Generalissimo of the National Guard; and, since six o’clock, the
      tocsins ring and the drums beat:—Under which peculiar
      circumstances, what would an august National Convention please to
      direct us to do?[651]

      Yes, there is the question! ‘Break the Insurrectionary
      Authorities,’ answers some with vehemence. Vergniaud at least
      will have ‘the National Representatives all die at their post;’
      this is sworn to, with ready loud acclaim. But as to breaking the
      Insurrectionary Authorities,—alas, while we yet debate, what
      sound is that? Sound of the Alarm-Cannon on the Pont Neuf; which
      it is death by the Law to fire without order from us!

      It does boom off there, nevertheless; sending a sound through all
      hearts. And the tocsins discourse stern music; and Henriot with
      his Armed Force has enveloped us! And Section succeeds Section,
      the livelong day; demanding with Cambyses’-oratory, with the
      rattle of muskets, That traitors, Twenty-two or more, be
      punished; that the Commission of Twelve be irrecoverably broken.
      The heart of the Gironde dies within it; distant are the
      Seventy-two respectable Departments, this fiery Municipality is
      near! Barrère is for a middle course; granting something. The
      Commission of Twelve declares that, not waiting to be broken, it
      hereby breaks itself, and is no more. Fain would Reporter Rabaut
      speak his and its last-words; but he is bellowed off. Too happy
      that the Twenty-two are still left unviolated!—Vergniaud,
      carrying the laws of refinement to a great length, moves, to the
      amazement of some, that “the Sections of Paris have deserved well
      of their country.” Whereupon, at a late hour of the evening, the
      deserving Sections retire to their respective places of abode.
      Barrère shall report on it. With busy quill and brain he sits,
      secluded; for him no sleep tonight. Friday the last of May has
      ended in this manner.

      The Sections have deserved well: but ought they not to deserve
      better? Faction and Girondism is struck down for the moment, and
      consents to be a nullity; but will it not, at another favourabler
      moment rise, still feller; and the Republic have to be saved in
      spite of it? So reasons Patriotism, still Permanent; so reasons
      the Figure of Marat, visible in the dim Section-world, on the
      morrow. To the conviction of men!—And so at eventide of Saturday,
      when Barrère had just got it all varnished in the course of the
      day, and his Report was setting off in the evening mail-bags,
      tocsin peals out _again! Générale_ is beating; armed men taking
      station in the Place Vendôme and elsewhere for the night;
      supplied with provisions and liquor. There under the summer stars
      will they wait, this night, what is to be seen and to be done,
      Henriot and Townhall giving due signal.

      The Convention, at sound of _générale_, hastens back to its Hall;
      but to the number only of a Hundred; and does little business,
      puts off business till the morrow. The Girondins do not stir out
      thither, the Girondins are abroad seeking beds. Poor Rabaut, on
      the morrow morning, returning to his post, with Louvet and some
      others, through streets all in ferment, wrings his hands,
      ejaculating, ‘_Illa suprema dies!_’[652] It has become Sunday,
      the second day of June, year 1793, by the old style; by the new
      style, year One of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. We have got to
      the last scene of all, that ends this history of the Girondin
      Senatorship.

      It seems doubtful whether any terrestrial Convention had ever met
      in such circumstances as this National one now does. Tocsin is
      pealing; Barriers shut; all Paris is on the gaze, or under arms.
      As many as a Hundred Thousand under arms they count: National
      Force; and the Armed Volunteers, who should have flown to the
      Frontiers and La Vendée; but would not, treason being unpunished;
      and only flew hither and thither! So many, steady under arms,
      environ the National Tuileries and Garden. There are horse, foot,
      artillery, sappers with beards: the artillery one can see with
      their camp-furnaces in this National Garden, heating bullets red,
      and their match is lighted. Henriot in plumes rides, amid a
      plumed Staff: all posts and issues are safe; reserves lie out, as
      far as the Wood of Boulogne; the choicest Patriots nearest the
      scene. One other circumstance we will note: that a careful
      Municipality, liberal of camp-furnaces, has not forgotten
      provision-carts. No member of the Sovereign need now go home to
      dinner; but can keep rank,—plentiful victual circulating
      unsought. Does not this People understand Insurrection? Ye, _not_
      uninventive, _Gualches!_—

      Therefore let a National Representation, “mandatories of the
      Sovereign,” take thought of it. Expulsion of your Twenty-two, and
      your Commission of Twelve: we stand here till it be done!
      Deputation after Deputation, in ever stronger language, comes
      with that message. Barrère proposes a middle course:—Will not
      perhaps the inculpated Deputies consent to withdraw voluntarily;
      to make a generous demission, and self-sacrifice for the sake of
      one’s country? Isnard, repentant of that search on which
      river-bank Paris stood, declares himself ready to demit. Ready
      also is _Te-Deum_ Fauchet; old Dusaulx of the Bastille, “_vieux
      radoteur_, old dotard,” as Marat calls him, is still readier. On
      the contrary, Lanjuinais the Breton declares that there is one
      man who never will demit voluntarily; but will protest to the
      uttermost, while a voice is left him. And he accordingly goes on
      protesting; amid rage and clangor; Legendre crying at last:
      ‘Lanjuinais, come down from the Tribune, or I will fling thee
      down, _ou je te jette en bas!_’ For matters are come to
      extremity. Nay they do clutch hold of Lanjuinais, certain zealous
      Mountain-men; but cannot fling him down, for he “cramps himself
      on the railing;” and “his clothes get torn.” Brave Senator,
      worthy of pity! Neither will Barbaroux demit; he ‘has sworn to
      die at his post, and will keep that oath.’ Whereupon the
      Galleries all rise with explosion; brandishing weapons, some of
      them; and rush out saying: ‘_Allons_, then; we must save our
      country!’ Such a Session is this of Sunday the second of June.

      Churches fill, over Christian Europe, and then empty themselves;
      but this Convention empties not, the while: a day of shrieking
      contention, of agony, humiliation and tearing of coatskirts;
      _illa suprema dies!_ Round stand Henriot and his Hundred
      Thousand, copiously refreshed from tray and basket: nay he is
      “distributing five francs a-piece;” we Girondins saw it with our
      eyes; five francs to keep them in heart! And distraction of armed
      riot encumbers our borders, jangles at our Bar; we are prisoners
      in our own Hall: Bishop Grégoire could not get out for a _besoin
      actuel_ without four gendarmes to wait on him! What is the
      character of a National Representative become? And now the
      sunlight falls yellower on western windows, and the chimney-tops
      are flinging longer shadows; the refreshed Hundred Thousand, nor
      their shadows, stir not! What to resolve on? Motion rises,
      superfluous one would think, That the Convention go forth in a
      body; ascertain with its own eyes whether it is free or not. Lo,
      therefore, from the Eastern Gate of the Tuileries, a distressed
      Convention issuing; handsome Hérault Séchelles at their head; he
      with hat on, in sign of public calamity, the rest
      bareheaded,—towards the Gate of the Carrousel; wondrous to see:
      towards Henriot and his plumed staff. ‘In the name of the
      National Convention, make way!’ Not an inch of the way does
      Henriot make: ‘I receive no orders, till the Sovereign, yours and
      mine, has been obeyed.’ The Convention presses on; Henriot
      prances back, with his staff, some fifteen paces, ‘To arms!
      Cannoneers to your guns!’—flashes out his puissant sword, as the
      Staff all do, and the Hussars all do. Cannoneers brandish the lit
      match; Infantry present arms,—alas, in the level way, as if for
      firing! Hatted Herault leads his distressed flock, through their
      pinfold of a Tuileries again; across the Garden, to the Gate on
      the opposite side. Here is Feuillans Terrace, alas, there is our
      old Salle de Manége; but neither at this Gate of the Pont
      Tournant is there egress. Try the other; and the other: no
      egress! We wander disconsolate through armed ranks; who indeed
      salute with _Live the Republic_, but also with _Die the Gironde_.
      Other such sight, in the year One of Liberty, the westering sun
      never saw.

      And now behold Marat meets us; for he lagged in this Suppliant
      Procession of ours: he has got some hundred elect Patriots at his
      heels: he orders us in the Sovereign’s name to return to our
      place, and do as we are bidden and bound. The Convention returns.
      ‘Does not the Convention,’ says Couthon with a singular power of
      face, ‘see that it is free?’—none but friends round it? The
      Convention, overflowing with friends and armed Sectioners,
      proceeds to vote as bidden. Many will not vote, but remain
      silent; some one or two protest, in words: the Mountain has a
      clear unanimity. Commission of Twelve, and the denounced
      Twenty-two, to whom we add Ex-Ministers Clavière and Lebrun:
      these, with some slight extempore alterations (this or that
      orator proposing, but Marat disposing), are voted to be under
      “Arrestment in their own houses.” Brissot, Buzot, Vergniaud,
      Guadet, Louvet, Gensonné, Barbaroux, Lasource, Lanjuinais,
      Rabaut,—Thirty-two, by the tale; all that we have known as
      Girondins, and more than we have known. They, “under the
      safeguard of the French People;” by and by, under the safeguard
      of two Gendarmes each, shall dwell peaceably in their own houses;
      as Non-Senators; till further order. Herewith ends _Séance_ of
      Sunday the second of June 1793.

      At ten o’clock, under mild stars, the Hundred Thousand, their
      work well finished, turn homewards. This same day, Central
      Insurrection Committee has arrested Madame Roland; imprisoned her
      in the Abbaye. Roland has fled, no one knows whither.

      Thus fell the Girondins, by Insurrection; and became extinct as a
      Party: not without a sigh from most Historians. The men were men
      of parts, of Philosophic culture, decent behaviour; not
      condemnable in that they were Pedants and had not better parts;
      not condemnable, but most unfortunate. They wanted a Republic of
      the Virtues, wherein themselves should be head; and they could
      only get a Republic of the Strengths, wherein others than they
      were head.

      For the rest, Barrère shall make Report of it. The night
      concludes with a “civic promenade by torchlight:”[653] surely the
      true reign of Fraternity is now not far?


      BOOK 3.IV.
      TERROR


      Chapter 3.4.I.
      Charlotte Corday.

      In the leafy months of June and July, several French Departments
      germinate a set of rebellious _paper_-leaves, named
      Proclamations, Resolutions, Journals, or Diurnals “of the Union
      for Resistance to Oppression.” In particular, the Town of Caen,
      in Calvados, sees its paper-leaf of _Bulletin de Caen_ suddenly
      bud, suddenly establish itself as Newspaper there; under the
      Editorship of Girondin National Representatives!

      For among the proscribed Girondins are certain of a more
      desperate humour. Some, as Vergniaud, Valazé, Gensonné, “arrested
      in their own houses” will await with stoical resignation what the
      issue may be. Some, as Brissot, Rabaut, will take to flight, to
      concealment; which, as the Paris Barriers are opened again in a
      day or two, is not yet difficult. But others there are who will
      rush, with Buzot, to Calvados; or far over France, to Lyons,
      Toulon, Nantes and elsewhither, and then rendezvous at Caen: to
      awaken as with war-trumpet the respectable Departments; and
      strike down an anarchic Mountain Faction; at least not yield
      without a stroke at it. Of this latter temper we count some score
      or more, of the Arrested, and of the Not-yet-arrested; a Buzot, a
      Barbaroux, Louvet, Guadet, Pétion, who have escaped from
      Arrestment in their own homes; a Salles, a Pythagorean Valady, a
      Duchâtel, the Duchâtel that came in blanket and nightcap to vote
      for the life of Louis, who have escaped from danger and
      likelihood of Arrestment. These, to the number at one time of
      Twenty-seven, do accordingly lodge here, at the “_Intendance_, or
      Departmental Mansion,” of the Town of Caen; welcomed by Persons
      in Authority; welcomed and defrayed, having no money of their
      own. And the _Bulletin de Caen_ comes forth, with the most
      animating paragraphs: How the Bourdeaux Department, the Lyons
      Department, this Department after the other is declaring itself;
      sixty, or say sixty-nine, or seventy-two[654] respectable
      Departments either declaring, or ready to declare. Nay
      Marseilles, it seems, will march on Paris by itself, if need be.
      So has Marseilles Town said, That she will march. But on the
      other hand, that Montélimart Town has said, No thoroughfare; and
      means even to “bury herself” under her own stone and mortar
      first—of this be no mention in _Bulletin of Caen_.

      Such animating paragraphs we read in this Newspaper; and
      fervours, and eloquent sarcasm: tirades against the Mountain,
      frame pen of Deputy Salles; which resemble, say friends, Pascal’s
      _Provincials_. What is more to the purpose, these Girondins have
      got a General in chief, one Wimpfen, formerly under Dumouriez;
      also a secondary questionable General Puisaye, and others; and
      are doing their best to raise a force for war. National
      Volunteers, whosoever is of right heart: gather in, ye National
      Volunteers, friends of Liberty; from our Calvados Townships, from
      the Eure, from Brittany, from far and near; forward to Paris, and
      extinguish Anarchy! Thus at Caen, in the early July days, there
      is a drumming and parading, a perorating and consulting: Staff
      and Army; Council; Club of _Carabots_, Anti-jacobin friends of
      Freedom, to denounce atrocious Marat. With all which, and the
      editing of _Bulletins_, a National Representative has his hands
      full.

      At Caen it is most animated; and, as one hopes, more or less
      animated in the “Seventy-two Departments that adhere to us.” And
      in a France begirt with Cimmerian invading Coalitions, and torn
      with an internal La Vendée, _this_ is the conclusion we have
      arrived at: to put down Anarchy by Civil War! _Durum et durum_,
      the Proverb says, _non faciunt murum_. La Vendée burns: Santerre
      can do nothing there; he may return home and brew beer. Cimmerian
      bombshells fly all along the North. That Siege of Mentz is become
      famed;—lovers of the Picturesque (as Goethe will testify), washed
      country-people of both sexes, stroll thither on Sundays, to see
      the artillery work and counterwork; “you only duck a little while
      the shot whizzes past.”[655] Condé is capitulating to the
      Austrians; Royal Highness of York, these several weeks, fiercely
      batters Valenciennes. For, alas, our fortified Camp of Famars was
      stormed; General Dampierre was killed; General Custine was
      blamed,—and indeed is now come to Paris to give “explanations.”

      Against all which the Mountain and atrocious Marat must even make
      head as they can. They, anarchic Convention as they are, publish
      Decrees, expostulatory, explanatory, yet not without severity;
      they ray forth Commissioners, singly or in pairs, the
      olive-branch in one hand, yet the sword in the other.
      Commissioners come even to Caen; but without effect. Mathematical
      Romme, and Prieur named of the Côte d’Or, venturing thither, with
      their olive and sword, are packed into prison: there may Romme
      lie, under lock and key, “for fifty days;” and meditate his New
      Calendar, if he please. Cimmeria and Civil War! Never was
      Republic One and Indivisible at a lower ebb.—

      Amid which dim ferment of Caen and the World, History specially
      notices one thing: in the lobby of the Mansion _de l’Intendance_,
      where busy Deputies are coming and going, a young Lady with an
      aged valet, taking grave graceful leave of Deputy Barbaroux.[656]
      She is of stately Norman figure; in her twenty-fifth year; of
      beautiful still countenance: her name is Charlotte Corday,
      heretofore styled d’Armans, while Nobility still was. Barbaroux
      has given her a Note to Deputy Duperret,—him who once drew his
      sword in the effervescence. Apparently she will to Paris on some
      errand? “She was a Republican before the Revolution, and never
      wanted energy.” A completeness, a decision is in this fair female
      Figure: “by energy she means the spirit that will prompt one to
      sacrifice himself for his country.” What if she, this fair young
      Charlotte, had emerged from her secluded stillness, suddenly like
      a Star; cruel-lovely, with half-angelic, half-demonic splendour;
      to gleam for a moment, and in a moment be extinguished: to be
      held in memory, so bright complete was she, through long
      centuries!—Quitting Cimmerian Coalitions without, and the
      dim-simmering Twenty-five millions within, History will look
      fixedly at this one fair Apparition of a Charlotte Corday; will
      note whither Charlotte moves, how the little Life burns forth so
      radiant, then vanishes swallowed of the Night.

      With Barbaroux’s Note of Introduction, and slight stock of
      luggage, we see Charlotte, on Tuesday the ninth of July, seated
      in the Caen Diligence, with a place for Paris. None takes
      farewell of her, wishes her Good-journey: her Father will find a
      line left, signifying that she is gone to England, that he must
      pardon her and forget her. The drowsy Diligence lumbers along;
      amid drowsy talk of Politics, and praise of the Mountain; in
      which she mingles not; all night, all day, and again all night.
      On Thursday, not long before none, we are at the Bridge of
      Neuilly; here is Paris with her thousand black domes,—the goal
      and purpose of thy journey! Arrived at the Inn de la Providence
      in the Rue des Vieux Augustins, Charlotte demands a room; hastens
      to bed; sleeps all afternoon and night, till the morrow morning.

      On the morrow morning, she delivers her Note to Duperret. It
      relates to certain Family Papers which are in the Minister of the
      Interior’s hand; which a Nun at Caen, an old Convent-friend of
      Charlotte’s, has need of; which Duperret shall assist her in
      getting: this then was Charlotte’s errand to Paris? She has
      finished this, in the course of Friday;—yet says nothing of
      returning. She has seen and silently investigated several things.
      The Convention, in bodily reality, she has seen; what the
      Mountain is like. The living physiognomy of Marat she could not
      see; he is sick at present, and confined to home.

      About eight on the Saturday morning, she purchases a large
      sheath-knife in the Palais Royal; then straightway, in the Place
      des Victoires, takes a hackney-coach: ‘To the Rue de l’Ecole de
      Médecine, No. 44.’ It is the residence of the Citoyen Marat!—The
      Citoyen Marat is ill, and cannot be seen; which seems to
      disappoint her much. Her business is with Marat, then? Hapless
      beautiful Charlotte; hapless squalid Marat! From Caen in the
      utmost West, from Neuchâtel in the utmost East, they two are
      drawing nigh each other; they two have, very strangely, business
      together.—Charlotte, returning to her Inn, despatches a short
      Note to Marat; signifying that she is from Caen, the seat of
      rebellion; that she desires earnestly to see him, and “will put
      it in his power to do France a great service.” No answer.
      Charlotte writes another Note, still more pressing; sets out with
      it by coach, about seven in the evening, herself. Tired
      day-labourers have again finished their Week; huge Paris is
      circling and simmering, manifold, according to its vague wont:
      this one fair Figure has decision in it; drives straight,—towards
      a purpose.

      It is yellow July evening, we say, the thirteenth of the month;
      eve of the Bastille day,—when “M. Marat,” four years ago, in the
      crowd of the Pont Neuf, shrewdly required of that Besenval
      Hussar-party, which had such friendly dispositions, ‘to dismount,
      and give up their arms, then;’ and became notable among Patriot
      men! Four years: what a road he has travelled;—and sits now,
      about half-past seven of the clock, stewing in slipper-bath; sore
      afflicted; ill of Revolution Fever,—of what other malady this
      History had rather not name. Excessively sick and worn, poor man:
      with precisely elevenpence-halfpenny of ready money, in paper;
      with slipper-bath; strong three-footed stool for writing on, the
      while; and a squalid—Washerwoman, one may call her: that is his
      civic establishment in Medical-School Street; thither and not
      elsewhither has his road led him. Not to the reign of Brotherhood
      and Perfect Felicity; yet surely on the way towards that?—Hark, a
      rap again! A musical woman’s-voice, refusing to be rejected: it
      is the Citoyenne who would do France a service. Marat,
      recognising from within, cries, Admit her. Charlotte Corday is
      admitted.

      Citoyen Marat, I am from Caen the seat of rebellion, and wished
      to speak with you.—Be seated, _mon enfant_. Now what are the
      Traitors doing at Caen? What Deputies are at Caen?—Charlotte
      names some Deputies. ‘Their heads shall fall within a fortnight,’
      croaks the eager People’s-Friend, clutching his tablets to write:
      _Barbaroux, Pétion_, writes he with bare shrunk arm, turning
      aside in the bath: _Pétion_, and _Louvet_, and—Charlotte has
      drawn her knife from the sheath; plunges it, with one sure
      stroke, into the writer’s heart. ‘_À moi, chère amie_, Help,
      dear!’ No more could the Death-choked say or shriek. The helpful
      Washerwoman running in, there is no Friend of the People, or
      Friend of the Washerwoman, left; but his life with a groan gushes
      out, indignant, to the shades below.[657]

      And so Marat People’s-Friend is ended; the lone Stylites has got
      hurled down suddenly from his Pillar,—_whitherward_ He that made
      him does know. Patriot Paris may sound triple and tenfold, in
      dole and wail; re-echoed by Patriot France; and the Convention,
      “Chabot pale with terror declaring that they are to be all
      assassinated,” may decree him Pantheon Honours, Public Funeral,
      Mirabeau’s dust making way for him; and Jacobin Societies, in
      lamentable oratory, summing up his character, parallel him to
      One, whom they think it honour to call “the good
      Sansculotte,”—whom we name not here.[658] Also a Chapel may be
      made, for the urn that holds his Heart, in the Place du
      Carrousel; and new-born children be named Marat; and Lago-de-Como
      Hawkers bake mountains of stucco into unbeautiful Busts; and
      David paint his Picture, or Death-scene; and such other
      Apotheosis take place as the human genius, in these
      circumstances, can devise: but Marat returns no more to the light
      of this Sun. One sole circumstance we have read with clear
      sympathy, in the old _Moniteur_ Newspaper: how Marat’s brother
      comes from Neuchâtel to ask of the Convention “that the deceased
      Jean-Paul Marat’s musket be given him.”[659] For Marat too had a
      brother, and natural affections; and was wrapt once in
      swaddling-clothes, and slept safe in a cradle like the rest of
      us. Ye children of men!—A sister of his, they say, lives still to
      this day in Paris.

      As for Charlotte Corday her work is accomplished; the recompense
      of it is near and sure. The _chère amie_, and neighbours of the
      house, flying at her, she “overturns some movables,” entrenches
      herself till the gendarmes arrive; then quietly surrenders; goes
      quietly to the Abbaye Prison: she alone quiet, all Paris sounding
      in wonder, in rage or admiration, round her. Duperret is put in
      arrest, on account of her; his Papers sealed,—which may lead to
      consequences. Fauchet, in like manner; though Fauchet had not so
      much as heard of her. Charlotte, confronted with these two
      Deputies, praises the grave firmness of Duperret, censures the
      dejection of Fauchet.

      On Wednesday morning, the thronged Palais de Justice and
      Revolutionary Tribunal can see her face; beautiful and calm: she
      dates it “fourth day of the Preparation of Peace.” A strange
      murmur ran through the Hall, at sight of her; you could not say
      of what character.[660] Tinville has his indictments and
      tape-papers the cutler of the Palais Royal will testify that he
      sold her the sheath-knife; ‘all these details are needless,’
      interrupted Charlotte; ‘it is I that killed Marat.’ By whose
      instigation?—‘By no one’s.’ What tempted you, then? His crimes.
      ‘I killed one man,’ added she, raising her voice extremely
      (_extrêmement_), as they went on with their questions, ‘I killed
      one man to save a hundred thousand; a villain to save innocents;
      a savage wild-beast to give repose to my country. I was a
      Republican before the Revolution; I never wanted energy.’ There
      is therefore nothing to be said. The public gazes astonished: the
      hasty limners sketch her features, Charlotte not disapproving;
      the men of law proceed with their formalities. The doom is Death
      as a murderess. To her Advocate she gives thanks; in gentle
      phrase, in high-flown classical spirit. To the Priest they send
      her she gives thanks; but needs not any shriving, or ghostly or
      other aid from him.

      On this same evening, therefore, about half-past seven o’clock,
      from the gate of the Conciergerie, to a City all on tiptoe, the
      fatal Cart issues: seated on it a fair young creature, sheeted in
      red smock of Murderess; so beautiful, serene, so full of life;
      journeying towards death,—alone amid the world. Many take off
      their hats, saluting reverently; for what heart but must be
      touched?[661] Others growl and howl. Adam Lux, of Mentz, declares
      that she is greater than Brutus; that it were beautiful to die
      with her: the head of this young man seems turned. At the Place
      de la Révolution, the countenance of Charlotte wears the same
      still smile. The executioners proceed to bind her feet; she
      resists, thinking it meant as an insult; on a word of
      explanation, she submits with cheerful apology. As the last act,
      all being now ready, they take the neckerchief from her neck: a
      blush of maidenly shame overspreads that fair face and neck; the
      cheeks were still tinged with it, when the executioner lifted the
      severed head, to shew it to the people. “It is most true,” says
      Foster, “that he struck the cheek insultingly; for I saw it with
      my eyes: the Police imprisoned him for it.”[662]

      In this manner have the Beautifullest and the Squalidest come in
      collision, and extinguished one another. Jean-Paul Marat and
      Marie-Anne Charlotte Corday both, suddenly, are no more. “Day of
      the Preparation of Peace?” Alas, how were peace possible or
      preparable, while, for example, the hearts of lovely Maidens, in
      their convent-stillness, are dreaming not of Love-paradises, and
      the light of Life; but of Codrus’-sacrifices, and death well
      earned? That Twenty-five million hearts have got to such temper,
      this _is_ the Anarchy; the soul of it lies in this: whereof not
      peace can be the embodyment! The death of Marat, whetting old
      animosities tenfold, will be worse than any life. O ye hapless
      Two, mutually extinctive, the Beautiful and the Squalid, sleep ye
      well,—in the Mother’s bosom that bore you both!

      This was the History of Charlotte Corday; most definite, most
      complete; angelic-demonic: like a Star! Adam Lux goes home,
      half-delirious; to pour forth his Apotheosis of her, in paper and
      print; to propose that she have a statue with this inscription,
      _Greater than Brutus_. Friends represent his danger; Lux is
      reckless; thinks it were beautiful to die with her.


      Chapter 3.4.II.
      In Civil War.

      But during these same hours, another guillotine is at work, on
      another: Charlotte, for the Girondins, dies at Paris today;
      Chalier, by the Girondins, dies at Lyons tomorrow.

      From rumbling of cannon along the streets of that City, it has
      come to firing of them, to rabid fighting: Nièvre-Chol and the
      Girondins triumph;—behind whom there is, as everywhere, a
      Royalist Faction waiting to strike in. Trouble enough at Lyons;
      and the dominant party carrying it with a high hand! For indeed,
      the whole South is astir; incarcerating Jacobins; arming for
      Girondins: wherefore we have got a “Congress of Lyons;” also a
      “Revolutionary Tribunal of Lyons,” and Anarchists shall tremble.
      So Chalier was soon found guilty, of Jacobinism, of murderous
      Plot, “address with drawn dagger on the sixth of February last;”
      and, on the morrow, he also travels his final road, along the
      streets of Lyons, “by the side of an ecclesiastic, with whom he
      seems to speak earnestly,”—the axe now glittering high. He could
      weep, in old years, this man, and “fall on his knees on the
      pavement,” blessing Heaven at sight of Federation Programs or
      like; then he pilgrimed to Paris, to worship Marat and the
      Mountain: now Marat and he are both gone;—we said he could not
      end well. Jacobinism groans inwardly, at Lyons; but dare not
      outwardly. Chalier, when the Tribunal sentenced him, made answer:
      ‘My death will cost this City dear.’

      Montélimart Town is not buried under its ruins; yet Marseilles is
      actually marching, under order of a “Lyons Congress;” is
      incarcerating Patriots; the very Royalists now shewing face.
      Against which a General Cartaux fights, though in small force;
      and with him an Artillery Major, of the name of—Napoleon
      Buonaparte. This Napoleon, to prove that the Marseillese have no
      chance ultimately, not only fights but writes; publishes his
      _Supper of Beaucaire_, a Dialogue which has become curious.[663]
      Unfortunate Cities, with their actions and their reactions!
      Violence to be paid with violence in geometrical ratio; Royalism
      and Anarchism both striking in;—the final net-amount of which
      geometrical series, what man shall sum?

      The Bar of Iron has never yet floated in Marseilles Harbour; but
      the Body of Rebecqui was found floating, self-drowned there. Hot
      Rebecqui seeing how confusion deepened, and Respectability grew
      poisoned with Royalism, felt that there was no refuge for a
      Republican but death. Rebecqui disappeared: no one knew whither;
      till, one morning, they found the empty case or body of him risen
      to the top, tumbling on the salt waves;[664] and perceived that
      Rebecqui had withdrawn forever.—Toulon likewise is incarcerating
      Patriots; sending delegates to Congress; intriguing, in case of
      necessity, with the Royalists and English. Montpellier,
      Bourdeaux, Nantes: all France, that is not under the swoop of
      Austria and Cimmeria, seems rushing into madness, and suicidal
      ruin. The Mountain labours; like a volcano in a burning volcanic
      Land. Convention Committees, of Surety, of Salvation, are busy
      night and day: Convention Commissioners whirl on all highways;
      bearing olive-branch and sword, or now perhaps sword only.
      Chaumette and Municipals come daily to the Tuileries demanding a
      Constitution: it is some weeks now since he resolved, in
      Townhall, that a Deputation “should go every day” and demand a
      Constitution, till one were got;[665] whereby suicidal France
      might rally and pacify itself; a thing inexpressibly desirable.

      This then is the fruit your Anti-anarchic Girondins have got from
      that Levying of War in Calvados? This fruit, we may say; and no
      other whatsoever. For indeed, before either Charlotte’s or
      Chalier’s head had fallen, the Calvados War itself had, as it
      were, vanished, dreamlike, in a shriek! With “seventy-two
      Departments” on one’s side, one might have hoped better things.
      But it turns out that Respectabilities, though they will vote,
      will not fight. Possession is always nine points in Law; but in
      Lawsuits of _this_ kind, one may say, it is ninety-and-nine
      points. Men do what they were wont to do; and have immense
      irresolution and inertia: they obey him who has the symbols that
      claim obedience. Consider what, in modern society, this one fact
      means: the Metropolis is with our enemies! Metropolis,
      _Mother-city;_ rightly so named: all the rest are but as her
      children, her nurselings. Why, there is not a leathern Diligence,
      with its post-bags and luggage-boots, that lumbers out from her,
      but is as a huge life-pulse; she is the heart of all. Cut short
      that one leathern Diligence, how much is cut short!—General
      Wimpfen, looking practically into the matter, can see nothing for
      it but that one should fall back on Royalism; get into
      communication with Pitt! Dark innuendoes he flings out, to that
      effect: whereat we Girondins start, horrorstruck. He produces as
      his Second in command a certain “_Ci-devant_,” one Comte Puisaye;
      entirely unknown to Louvet; greatly suspected by him.

      Few wars, accordingly, were ever levied of a more insufficient
      character than this of Calvados. He that is curious in such
      things may read the details of it in the Memoirs of that same
      _Ci-devant_ Puisaye, the much-enduring man and Royalist: How our
      Girondin National Forces, marching off with plenty of wind-music,
      were drawn out about the old Château of Brecourt, in the
      wood-country near Vernon, to meet the Mountain National forces
      advancing from Paris. How on the fifteenth afternoon of July,
      they did meet,—and, as it were, shrieked mutually, and took
      mutually to flight without loss. How Puisaye thereafter, for the
      Mountain Nationals fled first, and we thought ourselves the
      victors,—was roused from his warm bed in the Castle of Brecourt;
      and had to gallop without boots; our Nationals, in the
      night-watches, having fallen unexpectedly into _sauve qui
      peut:_—and in brief the Calvados War had burnt priming; and the
      only question now was, Whitherward to vanish, in what hole to
      hide oneself![666]

      The National Volunteers rush homewards, faster than they came.
      The Seventy-two Respectable Departments, says Meillan, “all
      turned round, and forsook us, in the space of four-and-twenty
      hours.” Unhappy those who, as at Lyons for instance, have gone
      too far for turning! “One morning,” we find placarded on our
      Intendance Mansion, the Decree of Convention which casts us _Hors
      la loi_, into Outlawry: placarded by our Caen Magistrates;—clear
      hint that we also are to vanish. Vanish, indeed: but whitherward?
      Gorsas has friends in Rennes; he will hide there,—unhappily will
      not lie hid. Guadet, Lanjuinais are on cross roads; making for
      Bourdeaux. To Bourdeaux! cries the general voice, of Valour alike
      and of Despair. Some flag of Respectability still floats there,
      or is thought to float.

      Thitherward therefore; each as he can! Eleven of these ill-fated
      Deputies, among whom we may count, as twelfth, Friend Riouffe the
      Man of Letters, do an original thing. Take the uniform of
      National Volunteers, and retreat southward with the Breton
      Battalion, as private soldiers of that corps. These brave Bretons
      had stood truer by us than any other. Nevertheless, at the end of
      a day or two, they also do now get dubious, self-divided; we must
      part from them; and, with some half-dozen as convoy or guide,
      retreat by ourselves,—a solitary marching detachment, through
      waste regions of the West.[667]


      Chapter 3.4.III.
      Retreat of the Eleven.

      It is one of the notablest Retreats, this of the Eleven, that
      History presents: The handful of forlorn Legislators retreating
      there, continually, with shouldered firelock and well-filled
      cartridge-box, in the yellow autumn; long hundreds of miles
      between them and Bourdeaux; the country all getting hostile,
      suspicious of the truth; simmering and buzzing on all sides, more
      and more. Louvet has preserved the Itinerary of it; a piece worth
      all the rest he ever wrote.

      O virtuous Pétion, with thy early-white head, O brave young
      Barbaroux, has it come to this? Weary ways, worn shoes, light
      purse;—encompassed with perils as with a sea! Revolutionary
      Committees are in every Township; of Jacobin temper; our friends
      all cowed, our cause the losing one. In the Borough of
      Moncontour, by ill chance, it is market-day: to the gaping public
      such transit of a solitary Marching Detachment is suspicious; we
      have need of energy, of promptitude and luck, to be allowed to
      march through. Hasten, ye weary pilgrims! The country is getting
      up; noise of you is bruited day after day, a solitary Twelve
      retreating in this mysterious manner: with every new day, a wider
      wave of inquisitive pursuing tumult is stirred up till the whole
      West will be in motion. “Cussy is tormented with gout, Buzot is
      too fat for marching.” Riouffe, blistered, bleeding, marching
      only on tiptoe; Barbaroux limps with sprained ancle, yet ever
      cheery, full of hope and valour. Light Louvet glances hare-eyed,
      not hare-hearted: only virtuous Pétion’s serenity “was but once
      seen ruffled.”[668] They lie in straw-lofts, in woody brakes;
      rudest paillasse on the floor of a secret friend is luxury. They
      are seized in the dead of night by Jacobin mayors and tap of
      drum; get off by firm countenance, rattle of muskets, and ready
      wit.

      Of Bourdeaux, through fiery La Vendée and the long geographical
      spaces that remain, it were madness to think: well, if you can
      get to Quimper on the sea-coast, and take shipping there. Faster,
      ever faster! Before the end of the march, so hot has the country
      grown, it is found advisable to march all night. They do it;
      under the still night-canopy they plod along;—and yet behold,
      Rumour has outplodded them. In the paltry Village of Carhaix (be
      its thatched huts, and bottomless peat-bogs, long notable to the
      Traveller), one is astonished to find light still glimmering:
      citizens are awake, with rush-lights burning, in that nook of the
      terrestrial Planet; as we traverse swiftly the one poor street, a
      voice is heard saying, ‘There they are, _Les voilà qui
      passent!_’[669] Swifter, ye doomed lame Twelve: speed ere they
      can arm; gain the Woods of Quimper before day, and lie squatted
      there!

      The doomed Twelve do it; though with difficulty, with loss of
      road, with peril, and the mistakes of a night. In Quimper are
      Girondin friends, who perhaps will harbour the homeless, till a
      Bourdeaux ship weigh. Wayworn, heartworn, in agony of suspense,
      till Quimper friendship get warning, they lie there, squatted
      under the thick wet boscage; suspicious of the face of man. Some
      pity to the brave; to the unhappy! Unhappiest of all Legislators,
      O when ye packed your luggage, some score, or two-score months
      ago; and mounted this or the other leathern vehicle, to be
      Conscript Fathers of a regenerated France, and reap deathless
      laurels,—did ye think your journey was to lead _hither?_ The
      Quimper Samaritans find them squatted; lift them up to help and
      comfort; will hide them in sure places. Thence let them dissipate
      gradually; or there they can lie quiet, and write _Memoirs_, till
      a Bourdeaux ship sail.

      And thus, in Calvados all is dissipated; Romme is out of prison,
      meditating his Calendar; ringleaders are locked in his room. At
      Caen the Corday family mourns in silence; Buzot’s House is a heap
      of dust and demolition; and amid the rubbish sticks a Gallows,
      with this inscription, _Here dwelt the Traitor Buzot who
      conspired against the Republic_. Buzot and the other vanished
      Deputies are _hors la loi_, as we saw; their lives free to take
      where they can be found. The worse fares it with the poor
      Arrested visible Deputies at Paris. “Arrestment at home”
      threatens to become “Confinement in the Luxembourg;” to end:
      _where?_ For example, what pale-visaged thin man is this,
      journeying towards Switzerland as a Merchant of Neuchâtel, whom
      they arrest in the town of Moulins? To Revolutionary Committee he
      is suspect. To Revolutionary Committee, on probing the matter, he
      is evidently: Deputy Brissot! Back to thy Arrestment, poor
      Brissot; or indeed to strait confinement,—whither others are
      fared to follow. Rabaut has built himself a false-partition, in a
      friend’s house; lives, in invisible darkness, between two walls.
      It will end, this same Arrestment business, in Prison, and the
      Revolutionary Tribunal.

      Nor must we forget Duperret, and the seal put on his papers by
      reason of Charlotte. One Paper is there, fit to breed woe enough:
      A secret solemn Protest against that _suprema dies_ of the Second
      of June! This Secret Protest our poor Duperret had drawn up, the
      same week, in all plainness of speech; waiting the time for
      publishing it: to which Secret Protest his signature, and that of
      other honourable Deputies not a few, stands legibly appended. And
      now, if the seals were once broken, the Mountain still
      victorious? Such Protestors, your Merciers, Bailleuls,
      Seventy-three by the tale, what yet remains of Respectable
      Girondism in the Convention, may tremble to think!—These are the
      fruits of levying civil war.

      Also we find, that, in these last days of July, the famed Siege
      of Mentz is _finished;_ the Garrison to march out with honours of
      war; not to serve against the Coalition for a year! Lovers of the
      Picturesque, and Goethe standing on the Chaussée of Mentz, saw,
      with due interest, the Procession issuing forth, in all
      solemnity:

      “Escorted by Prussian horse came first the French Garrison.
      Nothing could look stranger than this latter: a column of
      Marseillese, slight, swarthy, party-coloured, in patched clothes,
      came tripping on;—as if King Edwin had opened the Dwarf Hill, and
      sent out his nimble Host of Dwarfs. Next followed regular troops;
      serious, sullen; not as if downcast or ashamed. But the
      remarkablest appearance, which struck every one, was that of the
      Chasers (_Chasseurs_) coming out mounted: they had advanced quite
      silent to where we stood, when their Band struck up the
      _Marseillaise_. This Revolutionary _Te-Deum_ has in itself
      something mournful and bodeful, however briskly played; but at
      present they gave it in altogether slow time, proportionate to
      the creeping step they rode at. It was piercing and fearful, and
      a most serious-looking thing, as these cavaliers, long, lean men,
      of a certain age, with mien suitable to the music, came pacing
      on: singly you might have likened them to Don Quixote; in mass,
      they were highly dignified.

      “But now a single troop became notable: that of the Commissioners
      or _Représentans_. Merlin of Thionville, in hussar uniform,
      distinguishing himself by wild beard and look, had another person
      in similar costume on his left; the crowd shouted out, with rage,
      at sight of this latter, the name of a Jacobin Townsman and
      Clubbist; and shook itself to seize him. Merlin drew bridle;
      referred to his dignity as French Representative, to the
      vengeance that should follow any injury done; he would advise
      every one to compose himself, for this was not the _last time_
      they would see him here.[670] Thus rode Merlin; threatening in
      defeat. But what now shall stem that tide of Prussians setting in
      through the open North-East?” Lucky, if fortified Lines of
      Weissembourg, and impassibilities of Vosges Mountains, confine it
      to French Alsace, keep it from submerging the very heart of the
      country!

      Furthermore, precisely in the same days, Valenciennes Siege is
      finished, in the North-West:—fallen, under the red hail of York!
      Condé fell some fortnight since. Cimmerian Coalition presses on.
      What seems very notable too, on all these captured French Towns
      there flies not the Royalist fleur-de-lys, in the name of a new
      Louis the Pretender; but the Austrian flag flies; as if Austria
      meant to keep them for herself! Perhaps General Custines, still
      in Paris, can give some explanation of the fall of these
      strong-places? Mother Society, from tribune and gallery, growls
      loud that he ought to do it;—remarks, however, in a splenetic
      manner that “the _Monsieurs_ of the Palais Royal” are calling,
      Long-life to this General.

      The Mother Society, purged now, by successive “scrutinies or
      _épurations_,” from all taint of Girondism, has become a great
      Authority: what we can call shield-bearer, or bottle-holder, nay
      call it fugleman, to the purged National Convention itself. The
      Jacobins Debates are reported in the _Moniteur_, like
      Parliamentary ones.


      Chapter 3.4.IV.
      O Nature.

      But looking more specially into Paris City, what is this that
      History, on the 10th of August, Year One of Liberty, “by
      old-style, year 1793,” discerns there? Praised be the Heavens, a
      new Feast of Pikes!

      For Chaumette’s “Deputation every day” has worked out its result:
      a Constitution. It was one of the rapidest Constitutions ever put
      together; made, some say in eight days, by Hérault Séchelles and
      others: probably a workmanlike, roadworthy Constitution
      enough;—on which point, however, we are, for some reasons, little
      called to form a judgment. Workmanlike or not, the Forty-four
      Thousand Communes of France, by overwhelming majorities, did
      hasten to accept it; glad of any Constitution whatsoever. Nay
      Departmental Deputies have come, the venerablest Republicans of
      each Department, with solemn message of Acceptance; and now what
      remains but that our new Final Constitution be proclaimed, and
      sworn to, in Feast of Pikes? The Departmental Deputies, we say,
      are come some time ago;—Chaumette very anxious about them, lest
      Girondin _Monsieurs_, Agio-jobbers, or were it even _Filles de
      joie_ of a Girondin temper, corrupt their morals.[671] Tenth of
      August, immortal Anniversary, greater almost than Bastille July,
      is the Day.

      Painter David has not been idle. Thanks to David and the French
      genius, there steps forth into the sunlight, this day, a Scenic
      Phantasmagory unexampled:—whereof History, so occupied with
      Real-Phantasmagories, will say but little.

      For one thing, History can notice with satisfaction, on the ruins
      of the Bastille, a _Statue of Nature;_ gigantic, spouting water
      from her two _mammelles_. Not a Dream this; but a Fact, palpable
      visible. There she spouts, great Nature; dim, before daybreak.
      But as the coming Sun ruddies the East, come countless
      Multitudes, regulated and unregulated; come Departmental
      Deputies, come Mother Society and Daughters; comes National
      Convention, led on by handsome Herault; soft wind-music breathing
      note of expectation. Lo, as great Sol scatters his first
      fire-handful, tipping the hills and chimney-heads with gold,
      Herault is at great Nature’s feet (she is Plaster of Paris
      merely); Herault lifts, in an iron saucer, water spouted from the
      sacred breasts; drinks of it, with an eloquent Pagan Prayer,
      beginning, ‘O Nature!’ and all the Departmental Deputies drink,
      each with what best suitable ejaculation or prophetic-utterance
      is in him;—amid breathings, which become blasts, of wind-music;
      and the roar of artillery and human throats: finishing well the
      first act of this solemnity.

      Next are processionings along the Boulevards: Deputies or
      Officials bound together by long indivisible tricolor riband;
      general “members of the Sovereign” walking pellmell, with pikes,
      with hammers, with the tools and emblems of their crafts; among
      which we notice a Plough, and ancient Baucis and Philemon seated
      on it, drawn by their children. Many-voiced harmony and
      dissonance filling the air. Through Triumphal Arches enough: at
      the basis of the first of which, we descry—whom thinkest
      thou?—the Heroines of the Insurrection of Women. Strong Dames of
      the Market, they sit there (Théroigne too ill to attend, one
      fears), with oak-branches, tricolor bedizenment; firm-seated on
      their Cannons. To whom handsome Herault, making pause of
      admiration, addresses soothing eloquence; whereupon they rise and
      fall into the march.

      And now mark, in the Place de la Révolution, what other August
      Statue may this be; veiled in canvas,—which swiftly we shear off
      by pulley and cord? The _Statue of Liberty!_ She too is of
      plaster, hoping to become of metal; stands where a Tyrant Louis
      Quinze once stood. “Three thousand birds” are let loose, into the
      whole world, with labels round their neck, _We are free; imitate
      us._ Holocaust of Royalist and _ci-devant_ trumpery, such as one
      could still gather, is burnt; pontifical eloquence must be
      uttered, by handsome Herault, and Pagan orisons offered up.

      And then forward across the River; where is new enormous
      Statuary; enormous plaster Mountain; Hercules-_Peuple_, with
      uplifted all-conquering club; “many-headed Dragon of Girondin
      Federalism rising from fetid marsh;”—needing new eloquence from
      Herault. To say nothing of Champ-de-Mars, and Fatherland’s Altar
      there; with urn of slain Defenders, Carpenter’s-level of the Law;
      and such exploding, gesticulating and perorating, that Herault’s
      lips must be growing white, and his tongue cleaving to the roof
      of his mouth.[672]

      Towards six-o’clock let the wearied President, let Paris
      Patriotism generally sit down to what repast, and social repasts,
      can be had; and with flowing tankard or light-mantling glass,
      usher in this New and Newest Era. In fact, is not Romme’s New
      Calendar getting ready? On all housetops flicker little tricolor
      Flags, their flagstaff a Pike and Liberty-Cap. On all
      house-walls, for no Patriot, not suspect, will be behind another,
      there stand printed these words: _Republic one and indivisible,
      Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death._

      As to the New Calendar, we may say here rather than elsewhere
      that speculative men have long been struck with the inequalities
      and incongruities of the Old Calendar; that a New one has long
      been as good as determined on. Maréchal the Atheist, almost ten
      years ago, proposed a New Calendar, free at least from
      superstition: this the Paris Municipality would now adopt, in
      defect of a better; at all events, let us have either this of
      Maréchal’s or a better,—the New Era being come. Petitions, more
      than once, have been sent to that effect; and indeed, for a year
      past, all Public Bodies, Journalists, and Patriots in general,
      have dated _First Year of the Republic_. It is a subject not
      without difficulties. But the Convention has taken it up; and
      Romme, as we say, has been meditating it; not Maréchal’s New
      Calendar, but a better New one of Romme’s and our own. Romme,
      aided by a Monge, a Lagrange and others, furnishes mathematics;
      Fabre d’Eglantine furnishes poetic nomenclature: and so, on the
      5th of October 1793, after trouble enough, they bring forth this
      New Republican Calendar of theirs, in a complete state; and by
      Law, get it put in action.

      Four equal Seasons, Twelve equal Months of thirty days each: this
      makes three hundred and sixty days; and five odd days remain to
      be disposed of. The five odd days we will make Festivals, and
      name the five _Sansculottides_, or Days without Breeches.
      Festival of Genius; Festival of Labour; of Actions; of Rewards;
      of Opinion: these are the five Sansculottides. Whereby the great
      Circle, or Year, is made complete: solely every fourth year,
      whilom called Leap-year, we introduce a sixth Sansculottide; and
      name it Festival of the Revolution. Now as to the day of
      commencement, which offers difficulties, is it not one of the
      luckiest coincidences that the Republic herself commenced on the
      21st of September; close on the Vernal Equinox? Vernal Equinox,
      at midnight for the meridian of Paris, in the year whilom
      Christian 1792, from that moment shall the New Era reckon itself
      to begin. _Vendémiaire, Brumaire, Frimaire;_ or as one might say,
      in mixed English, _Vintagearious, Fogarious, Frostarious:_ these
      are our three Autumn months. _Nivose, Pluviose, Ventose_, or say
      _Snowous, Rainous, Windous_, make our Winter season. _Germinal,
      Floréal, Prairial_, or _Buddal, Floweral, Meadowal_, are our
      Spring season. _Messidor, Thermidor, Fructidor_, that is to say
      (_dor_ being Greek for _gift_), _Reapidor, Heatidor, Fruitidor_,
      are Republican Summer. These Twelve, in a singular manner, divide
      the Republican Year. Then as to minuter subdivisions, let us
      venture at once on a bold stroke: adopt your decimal subdivision;
      and instead of world-old Week, or _Se’ennight_, make it a
      _Tennight_ or _Décade;_—not without results. There are three
      Decades, then, in each of the months; which is very regular; and
      the _Decadi_, or Tenth-day, shall always be “the Day of Rest.”
      And the Christian Sabbath, in that case? Shall shift for itself!

      This, in brief, in this New Calendar of Romme and the Convention;
      calculated for the meridian of Paris, and Gospel of Jean-Jacques:
      not one of the least afflicting occurrences for the actual
      British reader of French History;—confusing the soul with
      _Messidors, Meadowals;_ till at last, in self-defence, one is
      forced to construct some ground-scheme, or rule of Commutation
      from New-style to Old-style, and have it lying by him. Such
      ground-scheme, almost worn out in our service, but still legible
      and printable, we shall now, in a Note, present to the reader.
      For the Romme Calendar, in so many Newspapers, Memoirs, Public
      Acts, has stamped itself deep into that section of Time: a New
      Era that lasts some Twelve years and odd is not to be
      despised.[673] Let the reader, therefore, with such
      ground-scheme, help himself, where needful, out of New-style into
      Old-style, called also “slave-style, _stile-esclave;_”—whereof
      we, in these pages, shall as much as possible use the latter
      only.

      Thus with new Feast of Pikes, and New Era or New Calendar, did
      France accept her New Constitution: the most Democratic
      Constitution ever committed to paper. How it will work in
      practice? Patriot Deputations from time to time solicit fruition
      of it; that it be set a-going. Always, however, this seems
      questionable; for the moment, unsuitable. Till, in some weeks,
      _Salut Public_, through the organ of Saint-Just, makes report,
      that, in the present alarming circumstances, the state of France
      is Revolutionary; that her “Government must be Revolutionary till
      the Peace!” Solely as Paper, then, and as a Hope, must this poor
      New Constitution exist;—in which shape we may conceive it lying;
      even now, with an infinity of other things, in that Limbo near
      the Moon. Further than paper it never got, nor ever will get.


      Chapter 3.4.V.
      Sword of Sharpness.

      In fact it is something quite other than paper theorems, it is
      iron and audacity that France now needs.

      Is not La Vendée still blazing;—alas too literally; rogue
      Rossignol burning the very corn-mills? General Santerre could do
      nothing there; General Rossignol, in blind fury, often in liquor,
      can do less than nothing. Rebellion spreads, grows ever madder.
      Happily those lean Quixote-figures, whom we saw retreating out of
      Mentz, “bound not to serve against the Coalition for a year,”
      have got to Paris. National Convention packs them into
      post-vehicles and conveyances; sends them swiftly, by post, into
      La Vendée! There valiantly struggling, in obscure battle and
      skirmish, under rogue Rossignol, let them, unlaurelled, save the
      Republic, and “be cut down gradually to the last man.”[674]

      Does not the Coalition, like a fire-tide, pour in; Prussia
      through the opened North-East; Austria, England through the
      North-West? General Houchard prospers no better there than
      General Custine did: let him look to it! Through the Eastern and
      the Western Pyrenees Spain has deployed itself; spreads, rustling
      with Bourbon banners, over the face of the South. Ashes and
      embers of confused Girondin civil war covered that region
      already. Marseilles is damped down, not quenched; to be quenched
      in blood. Toulon, terrorstruck, too far gone for turning, has
      flung itself, ye righteous Powers,—into the hands of the English!
      On Toulon Arsenal there flies a Flag,—nay not even the
      Fleur-de-lys of a Louis Pretender; there flies that accursed St.
      George’s Cross of the English and Admiral Hood! What remnants of
      sea-craft, arsenals, roperies, war-navy France had, has given
      itself to these enemies of human nature, “_ennemis du genre
      humain_.” Beleaguer it, bombard it, ye Commissioners Barras,
      Fréron, Robespierre Junior; thou General Cartaux, General
      Dugommier; above all, thou remarkable Artillery-Major, Napoleon
      Buonaparte! Hood is fortifying himself, victualling himself;
      means, apparently, to make a new Gibraltar of it.

      But lo, in the Autumn night, late night, among the last of
      August, what sudden red sunblaze is this that has risen over
      Lyons City; with a noise to deafen the world? It is the
      Powder-tower of Lyons, nay the Arsenal with four Powder-towers,
      which has caught fire in the Bombardment; and sprung into the
      air, carrying “a hundred and seventeen houses” after it. With a
      light, one fancies, as of the noon sun; with a roar second only
      to the Last Trumpet! All living sleepers far and wide it has
      awakened. What a sight was that, which the eye of History saw, in
      the sudden nocturnal sunblaze! The roofs of hapless Lyons, and
      all its domes and steeples made momentarily clear; Rhone and
      Saone streams flashing suddenly visible; and height and hollow,
      hamlet and smooth stubblefield, and all the region
      round;—heights, alas, all scarped and counterscarped, into
      trenches, curtains, redouts; blue Artillery-men, little
      Powder-devilkins, plying their hell-trade there, through the
      _not_ ambrosial night! Let the darkness cover it again; for it
      pains the eye. Of a truth, Chalier’s death is costing this City
      dear. Convention Commissioners, Lyons Congresses have come and
      gone; and action there was and reaction; bad ever growing worse;
      till it has come to this: Commissioner Dubois-Crancé, “with
      seventy thousand men, and all the Artillery of several
      Provinces,” bombarding Lyons day and night.

      Worse things still are in store. Famine is in Lyons, and ruin,
      and fire. Desperate are the sallies of the besieged; brave Précy,
      their National Colonel and Commandant, doing what is in man:
      desperate but ineffectual. Provisions cut off; nothing entering
      our city but shot and shells! The Arsenal has roared aloft; the
      very Hospital will be battered down, and the sick buried alive. A
      Black Flag hung on this latter noble Edifice, appealing to the
      pity of the beseigers; for though maddened, were they not still
      our brethren? In their blind wrath, they took it for a flag of
      defiance, and aimed thitherward the more. Bad is growing ever
      worse here: and how will the worse stop, till it have grown worst
      of all? Commissioner Dubois will listen to no pleading, to no
      speech, save this only, “We surrender at discretion.” Lyons
      contains in it subdued Jacobins; dominant Girondins; secret
      Royalists. And now, mere deaf madness and cannon-shot enveloping
      them, will not the desperate Municipality fly, at last, into the
      arms of Royalism itself? Majesty of Sardinia was to bring help,
      but it failed. Emigrant Autichamp, in name of the Two Pretender
      Royal Highnesses, is coming through Switzerland with help;
      coming, not yet come: Précy hoists the Fleur-de-lys!

      At sight of which, all true Girondins sorrowfully fling down
      their arms:—Let our Tricolor brethren storm us, then, and slay us
      in their wrath: with _you_ we conquer not. The famishing women
      and children are sent forth: deaf Dubois sends them back;—rains
      in mere fire and madness. Our “redouts of cotton-bags” are taken,
      retaken; Précy under his Fleur-de-lys is valiant as Despair. What
      will become of Lyons? It is a siege of seventy days.[675]

      Or see, in these same weeks, far in the Western waters: breasting
      through the Bay of Biscay, a greasy dingy little Merchantship,
      with Scotch skipper; under hatches whereof sit, disconsolate,—the
      last forlorn nucleus of Girondism, the Deputies from Quimper!
      Several have dissipated themselves, whithersoever they could.
      Poor Riouffe fell into the talons of Revolutionary Committee, and
      Paris Prison. The rest sit here under hatches; reverend Pétion
      with his grey hair, angry Buzot, suspicious Louvet, brave young
      Barbaroux, and others. They have escaped from Quimper, in this
      sad craft; are now tacking and struggling; in danger from the
      waves, in danger from the English, in still worse danger from the
      French;—banished by Heaven and Earth to the greasy belly of this
      Scotch skipper’s Merchant-vessel, unfruitful Atlantic raving
      round. They are for Bourdeaux, if peradventure hope yet linger
      there. Enter not Bourdeaux, O Friends! Bloody Convention
      Representatives, Tallien and such like, with their Edicts, with
      their Guillotine, have arrived there; Respectability is driven
      under ground; Jacobinism lords it on high. From that Réole
      landingplace, or _Beak of Ambès_, as it were, Pale Death, waving
      his Revolutionary Sword of sharpness, waves you elsewhither!

      On one side or the other of that Bec d’Ambès, the Scotch Skipper
      with difficulty moors, a dexterous greasy man; with difficulty
      lands his Girondins;—who, after reconnoitring, must rapidly
      burrow in the Earth; and so, in subterranean ways, in friends’
      back-closets, in cellars, barn-lofts, in Caves of Saint-Emilion
      and Libourne, stave off cruel Death.[676] Unhappiest of all
      Senators!


      Chapter 3.4.VI.
      Risen against Tyrants.

      Against all which incalculable impediments, horrors and
      disasters, what can a Jacobin Convention oppose? The
      uncalculating Spirit of Jacobinism, and Sansculottic
      sans-formulistic Frenzy! Our Enemies press in on us, says Danton,
      but they shall not conquer us, ‘we will burn France to ashes
      rather, _nous brûlerons la France_.’

      Committees, of _Sureté_ or _Salut_, have raised themselves “_à la
      hauteur_, to the height of circumstances.” Let all mortals raise
      themselves _à la hauteur_. Let the Forty-four thousand Sections
      and their Revolutionary Committees stir every fibre of the
      Republic; and every Frenchman feel that he is to do or die. They
      are the life-circulation of Jacobinism, these Sections and
      Committees: Danton, through the organ of Barrère and _Salut
      Public_, gets decreed, That there be in Paris, by law, two
      meetings of Section weekly; also, that the Poorer Citizen be
      _paid_ for attending, and have his day’s-wages of Forty
      Sous.[677] This is the celebrated “Law of the Forty Sous;”
      fiercely stimulant to Sansculottism, to the life-circulation of
      Jacobinism.

      On the twenty-third of August, Committee of Public Salvation, as
      usual through Barrère, had promulgated, in words not unworthy of
      remembering, their Report, which is soon made into a Law, of
      _Levy in Mass_. “All France, and whatsoever it contains of men or
      resources, is put under requisition,” says Barrère; really in
      Tyrtæan words, the best we know of his. “The Republic is one vast
      besieged city.” Two hundred and fifty Forges shall, in these
      days, be set up in the Luxembourg Garden, and round the outer
      wall of the Tuileries; to make gun-barrels; in sight of Earth and
      Heaven! From all hamlets, towards their Departmental Town; from
      all their Departmental Towns, towards the appointed Camp and seat
      of war, the Sons of Freedom shall march; their banner is to bear:
      “_Le Peuple Français debout contres les Tyrans_, The French
      People risen against Tyrants.” “The young men shall go to the
      battle; it is their task to conquer: the married men shall forge
      arms, transport baggage and artillery; provide subsistence: the
      women shall work at soldiers’ clothes, make tents; serve in the
      hospitals. The children shall scrape old-linen into
      surgeon’s-lint: the aged men shall have themselves carried into
      public places; and there, by their words, excite the courage of
      the young; preach hatred to Kings and unity to the
      Republic.”[678] Tyrtæan words, which tingle through all French
      hearts.

      In this humour, then, since no other serves, will France rush
      against its enemies. Headlong, reckoning no cost or consequence;
      heeding no law or rule but that supreme law, Salvation of the
      People! The weapons are all the iron that is in France; the
      strength is that of all the men, women and children that are in
      France. There, in their two hundred and fifty shed-smithies, in
      Garden of Luxembourg or Tuileries, let them forge gun-barrels, in
      sight of Heaven and Earth.

      Nor with heroic daring against the Foreign foe, can black
      vengeance against the Domestic be wanting. Life-circulation of
      the Revolutionary Committees being quickened by that _Law of the
      Forty Sous_, Deputy Merlin, not the Thionviller, whom we saw ride
      out of Mentz, but Merlin of Douai, named subsequently Merlin
      _Suspect_,—comes, about a week after, with his world-famous _Law
      of the Suspect:_ ordering all Sections, by their Committees,
      instantly to arrest all Persons Suspect; and explaining withal
      who the Arrestable and Suspect specially are. ‘Are Suspect,’ says
      he, ‘all who by their actions, by their connexions, speakings,
      writings have’—in short become Suspect.[679] Nay Chaumette,
      illuminating the matter still further, in his Municipal Placards
      and Proclamations, will bring it about that you may almost
      recognise a Suspect on the streets, and clutch him there,—off to
      Committee, and Prison. Watch well your words, watch well your
      looks: if Suspect of nothing else, you may grow, as came to be a
      saying, “Suspect of being Suspect!” For are we not in a State of
      Revolution?

      No frightfuller Law ever ruled in a Nation of men. All Prisons
      and Houses of Arrest in French land are getting crowded to the
      ridge-tile: Forty-four thousand Committees, like as many
      companies of reapers or gleaners, gleaning France, are gathering
      their harvest, and storing it in these Houses. Harvest of
      Aristocrat tares! Nay, lest the Forty-four thousand, each on its
      own harvest-field, prove insufficient, we are to have an ambulant
      “Revolutionary Army:” six thousand strong, under right captains,
      this shall perambulate the country at large, and strike in
      wherever it finds such harvest-work slack. So have Municipality
      and Mother Society petitioned; so has Convention decreed.[680]
      Let Aristocrats, Federalists, Monsieurs vanish, and all men
      tremble: “The Soil of Liberty shall be purged,”—with a vengeance!

      Neither hitherto has the Revolutionary Tribunal been keeping
      holyday. Blanchelande, for losing Saint-Domingo; “Conspirators of
      Orleans,” for “assassinating,” for assaulting the sacred Deputy
      Leonard-Bourdon: these with many Nameless, to whom life was
      sweet, have died. Daily the great Guillotine has its due. Like a
      black Spectre, daily at eventide, glides the Death-tumbril
      through the variegated throng of things. The variegated street
      shudders at it, for the moment; next moment forgets it: The
      Aristocrats! They were guilty against the Republic; their death,
      were it only that their goods are confiscated, will be useful to
      the Republic; _Vive la République!_

      In the last days of August, fell a notabler head: General
      Custine’s. Custine was accused of harshness, of unskilfulness,
      perfidiousness; accused of many things: found guilty, we may say,
      of one thing, unsuccessfulness. Hearing his unexpected Sentence,
      “Custine fell down before the Crucifix,” silent for the space of
      two hours: he fared, with moist eyes and a book of prayer,
      towards the Place de la Révolution; glanced upwards at the clear
      suspended axe; then mounted swiftly aloft,[681] swiftly was
      struck away from the lists of the Living. He had fought in
      America; he was a proud, brave man; and his fortune led him
      _hither_.

      On the 2nd of this same month, at three in the morning, a vehicle
      rolled off, with closed blinds, from the Temple to the
      Conciergerie. Within it were two Municipals; and
      Marie-Antoinette, once Queen of France! There in that
      Conciergerie, in ignominious dreary cell, she, cut off from
      children, kindred, friend and hope, sits long weeks; expecting
      when the end will be.[682]

      The Guillotine, we find, gets always a quicker motion, as other
      things are quickening. The Guillotine, by its speed of going,
      will give index of the general velocity of the Republic. The
      clanking of its huge axe, rising and falling there, in horrid
      systole-diastole, is portion of the whole enormous Life-movement
      and pulsation of the Sansculottic System!—“Orléans Conspirators”
      and Assaulters had to die, in spite of much weeping and
      entreating; so sacred is the person of a Deputy. Yet the sacred
      can become desecrated: your very Deputy is not greater than the
      Guillotine. Poor Deputy Journalist Gorsas: we saw him hide at
      Rennes, when the Calvados War burnt priming. He stole afterwards,
      in August, to Paris; lurked several weeks about the Palais
      _ci-devant_ Royal; was seen there, one day; was clutched,
      identified, and without ceremony, being already “out of the Law,”
      was sent to the Place de la Révolution. He died, recommending his
      wife and children to the pity of the Republic. It is the ninth
      day of October 1793. Gorsas is the first Deputy that dies on the
      scaffold; he will not be the last.

      Ex-Mayor Bailly is in prison; Ex-Procureur Manuel. Brissot and
      our poor Arrested Girondins have become Incarcerated Indicted
      Girondins; universal Jacobinism clamouring for their punishment.
      Duperret’s Seals are _broken!_ Those Seventy-three Secret
      Protesters, suddenly one day, are reported upon, are decreed
      accused; the Convention-doors being “previously shut,” that none
      implicated might escape. They were marched, in a very rough
      manner, to Prison that evening. Happy those of them who chanced
      to be absent! Condorcet has vanished into darkness; perhaps, like
      Rabaut, sits between two walls, in the house of a friend.


      Chapter 3.4.VII.
      Marie-Antoinette.

      On Monday the Fourteenth of October, 1793, a Cause is pending in
      the Palais de Justice, in the new Revolutionary Court, such as
      these old stone-walls never witnessed: the Trial of
      Marie-Antoinette. The once brightest of Queens, now tarnished,
      defaced, forsaken, stands here at Fouquier Tinville’s
      Judgment-bar; answering for her life! The Indictment was
      delivered her last night.[683] To such changes of human fortune
      what words are adequate? Silence alone is adequate.

      There are few Printed things one meets with, of such tragic
      almost ghastly significance as those bald Pages of the _Bulletin
      du Tribunal Révolutionnaire_, which bear title, _Trial of the
      Widow Capet_. Dim, dim, as if in disastrous eclipse; like the
      pale kingdoms of Dis! Plutonic Judges, Plutonic Tinville;
      encircled, nine times, with Styx and Lethe, with Fire-Phlegethon
      and Cocytus named of Lamentation! The very witnesses summoned are
      like Ghosts: exculpatory, inculpatory, they themselves are all
      hovering over death and doom; they are known, in our imagination,
      as the prey of the Guillotine. Tall _ci-devant_ Count d’Estaing,
      anxious to shew himself Patriot, cannot escape; nor Bailly, who,
      when asked If he knows the Accused, answers with a reverent
      inclination towards her, ‘Ah, yes, I know Madame.’ Ex-Patriots
      are here, sharply dealt with, as Procureur Manuel; Ex-Ministers,
      shorn of their splendour. We have cold Aristocratic impassivity,
      faithful to itself even in Tartarus; rabid stupidity, of Patriot
      Corporals, Patriot Washerwomen, who have much to say of Plots,
      Treasons, August Tenth, old Insurrection of Women. For all now
      has become a crime, in her who has _lost_.

      Marie-Antoinette, in this her utter abandonment and hour of
      extreme need, is not wanting to herself, the imperial woman. Her
      look, they say, as that hideous Indictment was reading, continued
      calm; “she was sometimes observed moving her fingers, as when one
      plays on the Piano.” You discern, not without interest, across
      that dim Revolutionary Bulletin itself, how she bears herself
      queenlike. Her answers are prompt, clear, often of Laconic
      brevity; resolution, which has grown contemptuous without ceasing
      to be dignified, veils itself in calm words. ‘You persist then in
      denial?’—‘My plan is not denial: it is the truth I have said, and
      I persist in that.’ Scandalous Hébert has borne his testimony as
      to many things: as to one thing, concerning Marie-Antoinette and
      her little Son,—wherewith Human Speech had better not further be
      soiled. She has answered Hébert; a Juryman begs to observe that
      she has not answered as to this. ‘I have not answered,’ she
      exclaims with noble emotion, ‘because Nature refuses to answer
      such a charge brought against a Mother. I appeal to all the
      Mothers that are here.’ Robespierre, when he heard of it, broke
      out into something almost like swearing at the brutish
      blockheadism of this Hébert;[684] on whose foul head his foul lie
      has recoiled. At four o’clock on Wednesday morning, after two
      days and two nights of interrogating, jury-charging, and other
      darkening of counsel, the result comes out: Sentence of Death.
      ‘Have you anything to say?’ The Accused shook her head, without
      speech. Night’s candles are burning out; and with her too Time is
      finishing, and it will be Eternity and Day. This Hall of
      Tinville’s is dark, ill-lighted except where she stands. Silently
      she withdraws from it, to die.

      Two Processions, or Royal Progresses, three-and-twenty years
      apart, have often struck us with a strange feeling of contrast.
      The first is of a beautiful Archduchess and Dauphiness, quitting
      her Mother’s City, at the age of Fifteen; towards hopes such as
      no other Daughter of Eve then had: “On the morrow,” says Weber an
      eye witness, “the Dauphiness left Vienna. The whole City crowded
      out; at first with a sorrow which was silent. She appeared: you
      saw her sunk back into her carriage; her face bathed in tears;
      hiding her eyes now with her handkerchief, now with her hands;
      several times putting out her head to see yet again this Palace
      of her Fathers, whither she was to return no more. She motioned
      her regret, her gratitude to the good Nation, which was crowding
      here to bid her farewell. Then arose not only tears; but piercing
      cries, on all sides. Men and women alike abandoned themselves to
      such expression of their sorrow. It was an audible sound of wail,
      in the streets and avenues of Vienna. The last Courier that
      followed her disappeared, and the crowd melted away.”[685]

      The young imperial Maiden of Fifteen has now become a worn
      discrowned Widow of Thirty-eight; grey before her time: this is
      the last Procession: “Few minutes after the Trial ended, the
      drums were beating to arms in all Sections; at sunrise the armed
      force was on foot, cannons getting placed at the extremities of
      the Bridges, in the Squares, Crossways, all along from the Palais
      de Justice to the Place de la Révolution. By ten o’clock,
      numerous patrols were circulating in the Streets; thirty thousand
      foot and horse drawn up under arms. At eleven, Marie-Antoinette
      was brought out. She had on an undress of _piqué blanc:_ she was
      led to the place of execution, in the same manner as an ordinary
      criminal; bound, on a Cart; accompanied by a Constitutional
      Priest in Lay dress; escorted by numerous detachments of infantry
      and cavalry. These, and the double row of troops all along her
      road, she appeared to regard with indifference. On her
      countenance there was visible neither abashment nor pride. To the
      cries of _Vive la République_ and _Down with Tyranny_, which
      attended her all the way, she seemed to pay no heed. She spoke
      little to her Confessor. The tricolor Streamers on the housetops
      occupied her attention, in the Streets du Roule and Saint-Honoré;
      she also noticed the Inscriptions on the house-fronts. On
      reaching the Place de la Révolution, her looks turned towards the
      _Jardin National_, whilom Tuileries; her face at that moment gave
      signs of lively emotion. She mounted the Scaffold with courage
      enough; at a quarter past Twelve, her head fell; the Executioner
      shewed it to the people, amid universal long-continued cries of
      “_Vive la République_.”[686]


      Chapter 3.4.VIII.
      The Twenty-two.

      Whom next, O Tinville? The next are of a different colour: our
      poor Arrested Girondin Deputies. What of them could still be laid
      hold of; our Vergniaud, Brissot, Fauchet, Valazé, Gensonné; the
      once flower of French Patriotism, Twenty-two by the tale:
      _hither_, at Tinville’s Bar, onward from “safeguard of the French
      People,” from confinement in the Luxembourg, imprisonment in the
      Conciergerie, have they now, by the course of things, arrived.
      Fouquier Tinville must give what account of them he can.

      Undoubtedly this Trial of the Girondins is the greatest that
      Fouquier has yet had to do. Twenty-two, all chief Republicans,
      ranged in a line there; the most eloquent in France; Lawyers too;
      not without friends in the auditory. How will Tinville prove
      these men guilty of Royalism, Federalism, Conspiracy against the
      Republic? Vergniaud’s eloquence awakes once more; “draws tears,”
      they say. And Journalists report, and the Trial lengthens itself
      out day after day; “threatens to become eternal,” murmur many.
      Jacobinism and Municipality rise to the aid of Fouquier. On the
      28th of the month, Hébert and others come in deputation to inform
      a Patriot Convention that the Revolutionary Tribunal is quite
      “shackled by forms of Law;” that a Patriot Jury ought to have
      “the power of cutting short, of _terminer les débats_, when they
      feel themselves convinced.” Which pregnant suggestion, of cutting
      short, passes itself, with all despatch, into a Decree.

      Accordingly, at ten o’clock on the night of the 30th of October,
      the Twenty-two, summoned back once more, receive this
      information, That the Jury feeling themselves convinced have cut
      short, have brought in their verdict; that the Accused are found
      guilty, and the Sentence on one and all of them is Death with
      confiscation of goods.

      Loud natural clamour rises among the poor Girondins; tumult;
      which can only be repressed by the gendarmes. Valazé stabs
      himself; falls down dead on the spot. The rest, amid loud clamour
      and confusion, are driven back to their Conciergerie; Lasource
      exclaiming, ‘I die on the day when the People have lost their
      reason; ye will die when they recover it.’[687] No help! Yielding
      to violence, the Doomed uplift the Hymn of the Marseillese;
      return singing to their dungeon.

      Riouffe, who was their Prison-mate in these last days, has
      lovingly recorded what death they made. To our notions, it is not
      an edifying death. Gay satirical _Pot-pourri_ by Ducos; rhymed
      Scenes of Tragedy, wherein Barrère and Robespierre discourse with
      Satan; death’s eve spent in “singing” and “sallies of gaiety,”
      with “discourses on the happiness of peoples:” these things, and
      the like of these, we have to accept for what they are worth. It
      is the manner in which the Girondins make _their_ Last Supper.
      Valazé, with bloody breast, sleeps cold in death; hears not their
      singing. Vergniaud has his dose of poison; but it is not enough
      for his friends, it is enough only for himself; wherefore he
      flings it from him; presides at this Last Supper of the
      Girondins, with wild coruscations of eloquence, with song and
      mirth. Poor human Will struggles to assert itself; if not in this
      way, then in that.[688]

      But on the morrow morning all Paris is out; such a crowd as no
      man had seen. The Death-carts, Valazé’s cold corpse stretched
      among the yet living Twenty-one, roll along. Bareheaded, hands
      bound; in their shirt-sleeves, coat flung loosely round the neck:
      so fare the eloquent of France; bemurmured, beshouted. To the
      shouts of _Vive la République_, some of them keep answering with
      counter-shouts of _Vive la République_. Others, as Brissot, sit
      sunk in silence. At the foot of the scaffold they again strike
      up, with appropriate variations, the Hymn of the Marseillese.
      Such an act of music; conceive it well! The yet Living chant
      there; the chorus so rapidly wearing weak! Samson’s axe is rapid;
      one head per minute, or little less. The chorus is worn out;
      farewell for evermore ye Girondins. Te-Deum Fauchet has become
      silent; Valazé’s dead head is lopped: the sickle of the
      Guillotine has reaped the Girondins all away. “The eloquent, the
      young, the beautiful and brave!” exclaims Riouffe. O Death, what
      feast is toward in thy ghastly Halls?

      Nor alas, in the far Bourdeaux region, will Girondism fare
      better. In caves of Saint-Emilion, in loft and cellar, the
      weariest months, roll on; apparel worn, purse empty; wintry
      November come; under Tallien and his Guillotine, all hope now
      gone. Danger drawing ever nigher, difficulty pressing ever
      straiter, they determine to separate. Not unpathetic the
      farewell; tall Barbaroux, cheeriest of brave men, stoops to clasp
      his Louvet: ‘In what place soever thou findest my mother,’ cries
      he, ‘try to be instead of a son to her: no resource of mine but I
      will share with thy Wife, should chance ever lead me where she
      is.’[689]

      Louvet went with Guadet, with Salles and Valady; Barbaroux with
      Buzot and Pétion. Valady soon went southward, on a way of his
      own. The two friends and Louvet had a miserable day and night;
      the 14th of November month, 1793. Sunk in wet, weariness and
      hunger, they knock, on the morrow, for help, at a friend’s
      country-house; the fainthearted friend refuses to admit them.
      They stood therefore under trees, in the pouring rain. Flying
      desperate, Louvet thereupon will to Paris. He sets forth, there
      and then, splashing the mud on each side of him, with a fresh
      strength gathered from fury or frenzy. He passes villages,
      finding “the sentry asleep in his box in the thick rain;” he is
      gone, before the man can call after him. He bilks Revolutionary
      Committees; rides in carriers’ carts, covered carts and open;
      lies hidden in one, under knapsacks and cloaks of soldiers’ wives
      on the Street of Orléans, while men search for him: has
      hairbreadth escapes that would fill three romances: finally he
      gets to Paris to his fair Helpmate; gets to Switzerland, and
      waits better days.

      Poor Guadet and Salles were both taken, ere long; they died by
      the Guillotine in Bourdeaux; drums beating to drown their voice.
      Valady also is caught, and guillotined. Barbaroux and his two
      comrades weathered it longer, into the summer of 1794; but not
      long enough. One July morning, changing their hiding place, as
      they have often to do, “about a league from Saint-Emilion, they
      observe a great crowd of country-people;” doubtless Jacobins come
      to take them? Barbaroux draws a pistol, shoots himself dead.
      Alas, and it was not Jacobins; it was harmless villagers going to
      a village wake. Two days afterwards, Buzot and Pétion were found
      in a Cornfield, their bodies half-eaten with dogs.[690]

      Such was the end of Girondism. They arose to regenerate France,
      these men; and have accomplished _this_. Alas, whatever quarrel
      we had with them, has not their cruel fate abolished it? Pity
      only survives. So many excellent souls of heroes sent down to
      Hades; they themselves given as a prey of dogs and all manner of
      birds! But, here too, the will of the Supreme Power was
      accomplished. As Vergniaud said: “The Revolution, like Saturn, is
      devouring its own children.”


      BOOK 3.V.
      TERROR THE ORDER OF THE DAY


      Chapter 3.5.I.
      Rushing down.

      We are now, therefore, got to that black precipitous Abyss;
      whither all things have long been tending; where, having now
      arrived on the giddy verge, they hurl down, in confused ruin;
      headlong, pellmell, down, down;—till Sansculottism have
      consummated itself; and in this wondrous French Revolution, as in
      a Doomsday, a World have been rapidly, if not born again, yet
      destroyed and engulphed. Terror has long been terrible: but to
      the actors themselves it has now become manifest that their
      appointed course is one of Terror; and they say, Be it so. ‘_Que
      la Terreur soit a l’ordre du jour_.’

      So many centuries, say only from Hugh Capet downwards, had been
      adding together, century transmitting it with increase to
      century, the sum of Wickedness, of Falsehood, Oppression of man
      by man. Kings were sinners, and Priests were, and People.
      Open-Scoundrels rode triumphant, bediademed, becoronetted,
      bemitred; or the still fataller species of Secret-Scoundrels, in
      their fair-sounding formulas, speciosities, respectabilities,
      hollow within: the race of Quacks was grown many as the sands of
      the sea. Till at length such a sum of Quackery had accumulated
      itself as, in brief, the Earth and the Heavens were weary of.
      Slow seemed the Day of Settlement: coming on, all imperceptible,
      across the bluster and fanfaronade of Courtierisms,
      Conquering-Heroisms, Most-Christian _Grand Monarque_-isms.
      Well-beloved Pompadourisms: yet behold it was always coming;
      behold it has come, suddenly, unlooked for by any man! The
      harvest of long centuries was ripening and whitening so rapidly
      of late; and now it is grown _white_, and is reaped rapidly, as
      it were, in one day. Reaped, in this Reign of Terror; and carried
      home, to Hades and the Pit!—Unhappy Sons of Adam: it is ever so;
      and never do they know it, nor will they know it. With cheerfully
      smoothed countenances, day after day, and generation after
      generation, they, calling cheerfully to one another,
      ‘Well-speed-ye,’ are at work, _sowing the wind_. And yet, as God
      lives, they _shall reap the whirlwind:_ no other thing, we say,
      is possible,—since God is a Truth and His World is a Truth.

      History, however, in dealing with this Reign of Terror, has had
      her own difficulties. While the Phenomenon continued in its
      primary state, as mere “Horrors of the French Revolution,” there
      was abundance to be said and shrieked. With and also without
      profit. Heaven knows there were terrors and horrors enough: yet
      that was not all the Phenomenon; nay, more properly, that was not
      the Phenomenon at all, but rather was the _shadow_ of it, the
      negative part of it. And now, in a new stage of the business,
      when History, ceasing to shriek, would try rather to include
      under her old Forms of speech or speculation this new amazing
      Thing; that so some accredited scientific Law of Nature might
      suffice for the unexpected Product of Nature, and History might
      get to speak of it articulately, and draw inferences and profit
      from it; in this new stage, History, we must say, babbles and
      flounders perhaps in a still painfuller manner. Take, for
      example, the latest Form of speech we have seen propounded on the
      subject as adequate to it, almost in these months, by our worthy
      M. Roux, in his _Histoire Parlementaire_. The latest and the
      strangest: that the French Revolution was a dead-lift effort,
      after eighteen hundred years of preparation, to realise—the
      Christian Religion![691] _Unity, Indivisibility, Brotherhood or
      Death_ did indeed stand printed on all Houses of the Living;
      also, on Cemeteries, or Houses of the Dead, stood printed, by
      order of Procureur Chaumette, Here is eternal Sleep:[692] but a
      Christian Religion realised by the Guillotine and Death-Eternal,
      “is suspect to me,” as Robespierre was wont to say, “_m’est
      suspecte._”

      Alas, no, M. Roux! A Gospel of Brotherhood, not according to any
      of the Four old Evangelists, and calling on men to repent, and
      amend _each his own_ wicked existence, that they might be saved;
      but a Gospel rather, as we often hint, according to a new Fifth
      Evangelist Jean-Jacques, calling on men to amend _each the whole
      world’s_ wicked existence, and be saved by making the
      Constitution. A thing different and distant _toto cœlo_, as they
      say: the whole breadth of the sky, and further if possible!—It is
      thus, however, that History, and indeed all human Speech and
      Reason does yet, what Father Adam began life by doing: strive to
      _name_ the new Things it sees of Nature’s producing,—often
      helplessly enough.

      But what if History were to admit, for once, that all the Names
      and Theorems yet known to her fall short? That this grand Product
      of Nature was even grand, and new, in that it came not to range
      itself under old recorded Laws-of-Nature at all; but to disclose
      new ones? In that case, History renouncing the pretention to
      _name_ it at present, will _look_ honestly at it, and name what
      she can of it! Any approximation to the right Name has value:
      were the right name itself once here, the Thing is known
      thenceforth; the Thing is then ours, and can be dealt with.

      Now surely not realization, of Christianity, or of aught earthly,
      do we discern in this Reign of Terror, in this French Revolution
      of which it is the consummating. Destruction rather we discern—of
      all that was destructible. It is as if Twenty-five millions,
      risen at length into the Pythian mood, had stood up
      simultaneously to say, with a sound which goes through far lands
      and times, that this Untruth of an Existence had become
      insupportable. O ye Hypocrisies and Speciosities, Royal mantles,
      Cardinal plushcloaks, ye Credos, Formulas, Respectabilities,
      fair-painted Sepulchres full of dead men’s bones,—behold, ye
      appear to us to be altogether a Lie. Yet our Life is not a Lie;
      yet our Hunger and Misery is not a Lie! Behold we lift up, one
      and all, our Twenty-five million right-hands; and take the
      Heavens, and the Earth and also the Pit of Tophet to witness,
      that either ye shall be abolished, or else we shall be abolished!

      No inconsiderable Oath, truly; forming, as has been often said,
      the most remarkable transaction in these last thousand years.
      Wherefrom likewise there follow, and will follow, results. The
      fulfilment of this Oath; that is to say, the black desperate
      battle of Men against their whole Condition and Environment,—a
      battle, alas, withal, against the Sin and Darkness that was in
      themselves as in others: this is the Reign of Terror.
      Transcendental despair was the purport of it, though not
      consciously so. False hopes, of Fraternity, Political Millennium,
      and what not, we have always seen: but the unseen heart of the
      whole, the transcendental despair, was not false; neither has it
      been of no effect. Despair, pushed far enough, completes the
      circle, so to speak; and becomes a kind of genuine productive
      hope again.

      Doctrine of Fraternity, out of old Catholicism, does, it is true,
      very strangely in the vehicle of a Jean-Jacques Evangel, suddenly
      plump down out of its cloud-firmament; and from a theorem
      determine to make itself a practice. But just so do all creeds,
      intentions, customs, knowledges, thoughts and things, which the
      French have, suddenly plump down; Catholicism, Classicism,
      Sentimentalism, Cannibalism: all _isms_ that make up Man in
      France, are rushing and roaring in that gulf; and the theorem has
      become a practice, and whatsoever cannot swim sinks. Not
      Evangelist Jean-Jacques alone; there is not a Village
      Schoolmaster but has contributed his quota: do we not _thou_ one
      another, according to the Free Peoples of Antiquity? The French
      Patriot, in red phrygian nightcap of Liberty, christens his poor
      little red infant Cato,—Censor, or else of Utica. Gracchus has
      become Baboeuf and edits Newspapers; Mutius Scaevola, Cordwainer
      of that ilk, presides in the Section Mutius-Scaevola: and in
      brief, there is a world wholly jumbling itself, to try what will
      swim!

      Wherefore we will, at all events, call this Reign of Terror a
      very strange one. Dominant Sansculottism makes, as it were, free
      arena; one of the strangest temporary states Humanity was ever
      seen in. A nation of men, full of wants and void of habits! The
      old habits are gone to wreck because they were old: men, driven
      forward by Necessity and fierce Pythian Madness, have, on the
      spur of the instant, to devise for the want the _way_ of
      satisfying it. The wonted tumbles down; by imitation, by
      invention, the Unwonted hastily builds itself up. What the French
      National head has in it comes out: if not a great result, surely
      one of the strangest.

      Neither shall the reader fancy that it was all blank, this Reign
      of Terror: far from it. How many hammermen and squaremen, bakers
      and brewers, washers and wringers, over this France, must ply
      their old daily work, let the Government be one of Terror or one
      of Joy! In this Paris there are Twenty-three Theatres nightly;
      some count as many as Sixty Places of Dancing.[693] The
      Playwright manufactures: pieces of a strictly Republican
      character. Ever fresh Novelgarbage, as of old, fodders the
      Circulating Libraries.[694] The “Cesspool of _Agio_,” now in the
      time of Paper Money, works with a vivacity unexampled,
      unimagined; exhales from itself “sudden fortunes,” like
      Alladin-Palaces: really a kind of miraculous Fata-Morganas, since
      you _can_ live in them, for a time. Terror is as a sable ground,
      on which the most variegated of scenes paints itself. In
      startling transitions, in colours all intensated, the sublime,
      the ludicrous, the horrible succeed one another; or rather, in
      crowding tumult, accompany one another.

      Here, accordingly, if anywhere, the “hundred tongues,” which the
      old Poets often clamour for, were of supreme service! In defect
      of any such organ on our part, let the Reader stir up his own
      imaginative organ: let us snatch for him this or the other
      significant glimpse of things, in the fittest sequence we can.


      Chapter 3.5.II.
      Death.

      In the early days of November, there is one transient glimpse of
      things that is to be noted: the last transit to his long home of
      Philippe d’Orléans Egalité. Philippe was “decreed accused,” along
      with the Girondins, much to his and their surprise; but not tried
      along with them. They are doomed and dead, some three days, when
      Philippe, after his long half-year of durance at Marseilles,
      arrives in Paris. It is, as we calculate, the third of November
      1793.

      On which same day, two notable Female Prisoners are also put in
      ward there: Dame Dubarry and Josephine Beauharnais! Dame whilom
      Countess Dubarry, Unfortunate-female, had returned from London;
      they snatched her, not only as Ex-harlot of a whilom Majesty, and
      therefore suspect; but as having “furnished the Emigrants with
      money.” Contemporaneously with whom, there comes the wife of
      Beauharnais, soon to be the widow: she that is Josephine Tascher
      Beauharnais; that shall be Josephine Empress Buonaparte, for a
      black Divineress of the Tropics prophesied long since that she
      should be a Queen and more. Likewise, in the same hours, poor
      Adam Lux, nigh turned in the head, who, according to Foster, “has
      taken no food these three weeks,” marches to the Guillotine for
      his Pamphlet on Charlotte Corday: he “sprang to the scaffold;”
      said he “died for her with great joy.” Amid such
      fellow-travellers does Philippe arrive. For, be the month named
      Brumaire year 2 of Liberty, or November year 1793 of Slavery, the
      Guillotine goes always, _Guillotine va toujours_.

      Enough, Philippe’s indictment is soon drawn, his jury soon
      convinced. He finds himself made guilty of Royalism, Conspiracy
      and much else; nay, it is a guilt in him that he voted Louis’s
      Death, though he answers, ‘I voted in my soul and conscience.’
      The doom he finds is death forthwith; this present sixth dim day
      of November is the last day that Philippe is to see. Philippe,
      says Montgaillard, thereupon called for breakfast: sufficiency of
      “oysters, two cutlets, best part of an excellent bottle of
      claret;” and consumed the same with apparent relish. A
      Revolutionary Judge, or some official Convention Emissary, then
      arrived, to signify that he might still do the State some service
      by revealing the truth about a plot or two. Philippe answered
      that, on him, in the pass things had come to, the State had, he
      thought, small claim; that nevertheless, in the interest of
      Liberty, he, having still some leisure on his hands, was willing,
      were a reasonable question asked him, to give reasonable answer.
      And so, says Montgaillard, he lent his elbow on the mantel-piece,
      and conversed in an under-tone, with great seeming composure;
      till the leisure was done, or the Emissary went his ways.

      At the door of the Conciergerie, Philippe’s attitude was erect
      and easy, almost commanding. It is five years, all but a few
      days, since Philippe, within these same stone walls, stood up
      with an air of graciosity, and asked King Louis, ‘Whether it was
      a Royal Session, then, or a Bed of Justice?’ O Heaven!—Three poor
      blackguards were to ride and die with him: some say, they
      objected to such company, and had to be flung in, neck and
      heels;[695] but it seems not true. Objecting or not objecting,
      the gallows-vehicle gets under way. Philippe’s dress is remarked
      for its elegance; greenfrock, waistcoat of white _piqué_, yellow
      buckskins, boots clear as Warren: his air, as before, entirely
      composed, impassive, not to say easy and Brummellean-polite.
      Through street after street; slowly, amid execrations;—past the
      Palais Egalité whilom Palais-Royal! The cruel Populace stopped
      him there, some minutes: Dame de Buffon, it is said, looked out
      on him, in Jezebel head-tire; along the ashlar Wall, there ran
      these words in huge tricolor print, REPUBLIC ONE AND INDIVISIBLE;
      LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY OR DEATH: _National Property_.
      Philippe’s eyes flashed hellfire, one instant; but the next
      instant it was gone, and he sat impassive, Brummellean-polite. On
      the scaffold, Samson was for drawing of his boots: ‘tush,’ said
      Philippe, ‘they will come better off _after;_ let us have done,
      _dépêchons-nous!_’

      So Philippe was not without virtue, then? God forbid that there
      should be any living man without it! He had the virtue to keep
      living for five-and-forty years;—other virtues perhaps more than
      we know of. Probably no mortal ever had such things recorded of
      him: such facts, and also such lies. For he was a _Jacobin Prince
      of the Blood;_ consider what a combination! Also, unlike any
      Nero, any Borgia, he lived in the Age of Pamphlets. Enough for
      us: Chaos _has_ reabsorbed him; may it late or never bear his
      like again!—Brave young Orleans Egalité, deprived of all, only
      not deprived of himself, is gone to Coire in the Grisons, under
      the name of Corby, to teach Mathematics. The Egalité Family is at
      the darkest depths of the Nadir.

      A far nobler Victim follows; one who will claim remembrance from
      several centuries: Jeanne-Marie Phlipon, the Wife of Roland.
      Queenly, sublime in her uncomplaining sorrow, seemed she to
      Riouffe in her Prison. “Something more than is usually found in
      the looks of women painted itself,” says Riouffe,[696] “in those
      large black eyes of hers, full of expression and sweetness. She
      spoke to me often, at the Grate: we were all attentive round her,
      in a sort of admiration and astonishment; she expressed herself
      with a purity, with a harmony and prosody that made her language
      like music, of which the ear could never have enough. Her
      conversation was serious, not cold; coming from the mouth of a
      beautiful woman, it was frank and courageous as that of a great
      men.” “And yet her maid said: ‘Before you, she collects her
      strength; but in her own room, she will sit three hours
      sometimes, leaning on the window, and weeping.’” She had been in
      Prison, liberated once, but recaptured the same hour, ever since
      the first of June: in agitation and uncertainty; which has
      gradually settled down into the last stern certainty, that of
      death. In the Abbaye Prison, she occupied Charlotte Corday’s
      apartment. Here in the Conciergerie, she speaks with Riouffe,
      with Ex-Minister Clavière; calls the beheaded Twenty-two ‘_Nos
      amis_, our Friends,’—whom we are soon to follow. During these
      five months, those _Memoirs_ of hers were written, which all the
      world still reads.

      But now, on the 8th of November, “clad in white,” says Riouffe,
      “with her long black hair hanging down to her girdle,” she is
      gone to the Judgment Bar. She returned with a quick step; lifted
      her finger, to signify to us that she was doomed: her eyes seemed
      to have been wet. Fouquier-Tinville’s questions had been
      “brutal;” offended female honour flung them back on him, with
      scorn, not without tears. And now, short preparation soon done,
      she shall go her last road. There went with her a certain
      Lamarche, “Director of Assignat printing;” whose dejection she
      endeavoured to cheer. Arrived at the foot of the scaffold, she
      asked for pen and paper, ‘to write the strange thoughts that were
      rising in her;’[697] a remarkable request; which was refused.
      Looking at the Statue of Liberty which stands there, she says
      bitterly: ‘O Liberty, what things are done in thy name!’ For
      Lamarche’s sake, she will die first; shew him how easy it is to
      die: ‘Contrary to the order’ said Samson.—‘Pshaw, you cannot
      refuse the last request of a Lady;’ and Samson yielded.

      Noble white Vision, with its high queenly face, its soft proud
      eyes, long black hair flowing down to the girdle; and as brave a
      heart as ever beat in woman’s bosom! Like a white Grecian Statue,
      serenely complete, she shines in that black wreck of things;—long
      memorable. Honour to great Nature who, in Paris City, in the Era
      of Noble-Sentiment and Pompadourism, can make a Jeanne Phlipon,
      and nourish her to clear perennial Womanhood, though but on
      Logics, _Encyclopédies_, and the Gospel according to
      Jean-Jacques! Biography will long remember that trait of asking
      for a pen ‘to write the strange thoughts that were rising in
      her.’ It is as a little light-beam, shedding softness, and a kind
      of sacredness, over all that preceded: so in her too there was an
      Unnameable; she too was a Daughter of the Infinite; there were
      mysteries which Philosophism had not dreamt of!—She left long
      written counsels to her little Girl; she said her Husband would
      not survive her.

      Still crueller was the fate of poor Bailly, First National
      President, First Mayor of Paris: doomed now for Royalism,
      Fayettism; for that Red-Flag Business of the Champ-de-Mars;—one
      may say in general, for leaving his Astronomy to meddle with
      Revolution. It is the 10th of November 1793, a cold bitter
      drizzling rain, as poor Bailly is led through the streets;
      howling Populace covering him with curses, with mud; waving over
      his face a burning or smoking mockery of a Red Flag. Silent,
      unpitied, sits the innocent old man. Slow faring through the
      sleety drizzle, they have got to the Champ-de-Mars: Not there!
      vociferates the cursing Populace; Such blood ought not to stain
      an Altar of the Fatherland; not there; but on that dungheap by
      the River-side! So vociferates the cursing Populace; Officiality
      gives ear to them. The Guillotine is taken down, though with
      hands numbed by the sleety drizzle; is carried to the River-side,
      is there set up again, with slow numbness; pulse after pulse
      still counting itself out in the old man’s weary heart. For hours
      long; amid curses and bitter frost-rain! ‘Bailly, thou
      tremblest,’ said one. ‘_Mon ami_, it is for cold,’ said Bailly,
      ‘_c’est de froid_.’ Crueller end had no mortal.[698]

      Some days afterwards, Roland hearing the news of what happened on
      the 8th, embraces his kind Friends at Rouen, leaves their kind
      house which had given him refuge; goes forth, with farewell too
      sad for tears. On the morrow morning, 16th of the month, “some
      four leagues from Rouen, Paris-ward, near Bourg-Baudoin, in M.
      Normand’s Avenue,” there is seen sitting leant against a tree,
      the figure of rigorous wrinkled man; stiff now in the rigour of
      death; a cane-sword run through his heart; and at his feet this
      writing: “Whoever thou art that findest me lying, respect my
      remains: they are those of a man who consecrated all his life to
      being useful; and who has died as he lived, virtuous and honest.”
      “Not fear, but indignation, made me quit my retreat, on learning
      that my Wife had been murdered. I wished not to remain longer on
      an Earth polluted with crimes.”[699]

      Barnave’s appearance at the Revolutionary Tribunal was of the
      bravest; but it could not stead him. They have sent for him from
      Grenoble; to pay the common smart, Vain is eloquence, forensic or
      other, against the dumb Clotho-shears of Tinville. He is still
      but two-and-thirty, this Barnave, and has known such changes.
      Short while ago, we saw him at the top of Fortune’s Wheel, his
      word a law to all Patriots: and now surely he is at the _bottom_
      of the Wheel; in stormful altercation with a Tinville Tribunal,
      which is dooming him to die![700] And Pétion, once also of the
      Extreme Left, and named _Pétion Virtue_, where is he? Civilly
      dead; in the Caves of Saint-Emilion; to be devoured of dogs. And
      Robespierre, who rode along with him on the shoulders of the
      people, is in Committee of _Salut;_ civilly alive: not to live
      always. So giddy-swift whirls and spins this immeasurable
      _tormentum_ of a Revolution; wild-booming; not to be followed by
      the eye. Barnave, on the Scaffold, stamped his foot; and looking
      upwards was heard to ejaculate, ‘This then is my reward?’

      Deputy Ex-Procureur Manuel is already gone; and Deputy Osselin,
      famed also in August and September, is about to go: and Rabaut,
      discovered treacherously between his two walls, and the Brother
      of Rabaut. National Deputies not a few! And Generals: the memory
      of General Custine cannot be defended by his Son; his Son is
      already guillotined. Custine the Ex-Noble was replaced by
      Houchard the Plebeian: he too could not prosper in the North; for
      him too there was no mercy; he has perished in the Place de la
      Revolution, after attempting suicide in Prison. And Generals
      Biron, Beauharnais, Brunet, whatsoever General prospers not;
      tough old Lückner, with his eyes grown rheumy; Alsatian
      Westermann, valiant and diligent in La Vendée: _none of them
      can_, as the Psalmist sings, _his soul from death deliver_.

      How busy are the Revolutionary Committees; Sections with their
      Forty Halfpence a-day! Arrestment on arrestment falls quick,
      continual; followed by death. Ex-Minister Clavière has killed
      himself in Prison. Ex-Minister Lebrun, seized in a hayloft, under
      the disguise of a working man, is instantly conducted to
      death.[701] Nay, withal, is it not what Barrère calls “coining
      money on the Place de la Révolution?” For always the “property of
      the guilty, if property he have,” is confiscated. To avoid
      accidents, we even make a Law that suicide shall not defraud us;
      that a criminal who kills himself does not the less incur
      forfeiture of goods. Let the guilty tremble, therefore, and the
      suspect, and the rich, and in a word all manner of culottic men!
      Luxembourg Palace, once Monsieur’s, has become a huge loathsome
      Prison; Chantilly Palace too, once Condé’s:—and their Landlords
      are at Blankenberg, on the wrong side of the Rhine. In Paris are
      now some Twelve Prisons; in France some Forty-four Thousand:
      thitherward, thick as brown leaves in Autumn, rustle and travel
      the suspect; shaken down by Revolutionary Committees, they are
      swept thitherward, as into their storehouse,—to be consumed by
      Samson and Tinville. “The Guillotine goes not ill, _ La
      Guillotine ne va pas mal_.”


      Chapter 3.5.III.
      Destruction.

      The suspect may well tremble; but how much more the open
      rebels;—the Girondin Cities of the South! Revolutionary Army is
      gone forth, under Ronsin the Playwright; six thousand strong; in
      “red nightcap, in tricolor waistcoat, in black-shag trousers,
      black-shag spencer, with enormous moustachioes, enormous
      sabre,—in _carmagnole complète;_”[702] and has portable
      guillotines. Representative Carrier has got to Nantes, by the
      edge of blazing La Vendée, which Rossignol has literally set on
      fire: Carrier will try what captives you make, what accomplices
      they have, Royalist or Girondin: his guillotine goes always, _va
      toujours;_ and his wool-capped “Company of Marat.” Little
      children are guillotined, and aged men. Swift as the machine is,
      it will not serve; the Headsman and all his valets sink, worn
      down with work; declare that the human muscles can no more.[703]
      Whereupon you must try fusillading; to which perhaps still
      frightfuller methods may succeed.

      In Brest, to like purpose, rules Jean-Bon Saint-André; with an
      Army of Red Nightcaps. In Bourdeaux rules Tallien, with his
      Isabeau and henchmen: Guadets, Cussys, Salleses, may fall; the
      bloody Pike and Nightcap bearing supreme sway; the Guillotine
      coining money. Bristly fox-haired Tallien, once Able Editor,
      still young in years, is now become most gloomy, potent; a Pluto
      on Earth, and has the keys of Tartarus. One remarks, however,
      that a certain Senhorina Cabarus, or call her rather _Senhora_
      and wedded not yet widowed _Dame de Fontenai_, brown beautiful
      woman, daughter of Cabarus the Spanish merchant,—has softened the
      red bristly countenance; pleading for herself and friends; and
      prevailing. The keys of Tartarus, or any kind of power, are
      something to a woman; gloomy Pluto himself is not insensible to
      love. Like a new Proserpine, she, by this red gloomy Dis, is
      gathered; and, they say, softens his stone heart a little.

      Maignet, at Orange in the South; Lebon, at Arras in the North,
      become world’s wonders. Jacobin Popular Tribunal, with its
      National Representative, perhaps where Girondin Popular Tribunal
      had lately been, rises here and rises there; wheresoever needed.
      Fouchés, Maignets, Barrases, Frérons scour the Southern
      Departments; like reapers, with their guillotine-sickle. Many are
      the labourers, great is the harvest. By the hundred and the
      thousand, men’s lives are cropt; cast like brands into the
      burning.

      Marseilles is taken, and put under martial law: lo, at
      Marseilles, what one besmutted red-bearded corn-ear is this which
      they cut;—one gross Man, we mean, with copper-studded face;
      plenteous beard, or beard-stubble, of a tile-colour? By Nemesis
      and the Fatal Sisters, it is Jourdan Coupe-tête! Him they have
      clutched, in these martial-law districts; him too, with their
      “national razor,” their _rasoir national_, they sternly shave
      away. Low now is Jourdan the Headsman’s own head;—low as
      Deshuttes’s and Varigny’s, which he sent on pikes, in the
      Insurrection of Women! No more shall he, as a copper Portent, be
      seen gyrating through the Cities of the South; no more sit
      judging, with pipes and brandy, in the Ice-tower of Avignon. The
      all-hiding Earth has received him, the bloated Tilebeard: may we
      never look upon his like again!—Jourdan one names; the other
      Hundreds are not named. Alas, they, like confused faggots, lie
      massed together for us; counted by the cartload: and yet not an
      individual faggot-twig of them but had a Life and History; and
      was cut, not without pangs as when a Kaiser dies!

      Least of all cities can Lyons escape. Lyons, which we saw in
      dread sunblaze, that Autumn night when the Powder-tower sprang
      aloft, was clearly verging towards a sad end. Inevitable: what
      could desperate valour and Précy do; Dubois-Crancé, deaf as
      Destiny, stern as Doom, capturing their “redouts of cotton-bags;”
      hemming them in, ever closer, with his Artillery-lava? Never
      would that _ci-devant_ d’Autichamp arrive; never any help from
      Blankenberg. The Lyons Jacobins were hidden in cellars; the
      Girondin Municipality waxed pale, in famine, treason and red
      fire. Précy drew his sword, and some Fifteen Hundred with him;
      sprang to saddle, to cut their way to Switzerland. They cut
      fiercely; and were fiercely cut, and cut down; not hundreds,
      hardly units of them ever saw Switzerland.[704] Lyons, on the 9th
      of October, surrenders at discretion; it is become a devoted
      Town. Abbé Lamourette, now Bishop Lamourette, whilom Legislator,
      he of the old _Baiser-l’Amourette_ or Delilah-Kiss, is seized
      here, is sent to Paris to be guillotined: “he made the sign of
      the cross,” they say when Tinville intimated his death-sentence
      to him; and died as an eloquent Constitutional Bishop. But wo now
      to all Bishops, Priests, Aristocrats and Federalists that are in
      Lyons! The _manes_ of Chalier are to be appeased; the Republic,
      maddened to the Sibylline pitch, has bared her right arm. Behold!
      Representative Fouché, it is Fouché of Nantes, a name to become
      well known; he with a Patriot company goes duly, in wondrous
      Procession, to raise the corpse of Chalier. An Ass, housed in
      Priest’s cloak, with a mitre on its head, and trailing the
      Mass-Books, some say the very Bible, at its tail, paces through
      Lyons streets; escorted by multitudinous Patriotism, by clangour
      as of the Pit; towards the grave of Martyr Chalier. The body is
      dug up and burnt: the ashes are collected in an Urn; to be
      worshipped of Paris Patriotism. The Holy Books were part of the
      funeral pile; their ashes are scattered to the wind. Amid cries
      of ‘Vengeance! Vengeance!’—which, writes Fouché, shall be
      satisfied.[705]

      Lyons in fact is a Town to be abolished; not Lyons henceforth but
      “_Commune Affranchie_, Township Freed;” the very name of it shall
      perish. It is to be razed, this once great City, if Jacobinism
      prophesy right; and a Pillar to be erected on the ruins, with
      this Inscription, _Lyons rebelled against the Republic; Lyons is
      no more_. Fouché, Couthon, Collot, Convention Representatives
      succeed one another: there is work for the hangman; work for the
      hammerman, _not_ in building. The very Houses of Aristocrats, we
      say, are doomed. Paralytic Couthon, borne in a chair, taps on the
      wall, with emblematic mallet, saying, ‘_La Loi te frappe_, The
      Law strikes thee;’ masons, with wedge and crowbar, begin
      demolition. Crash of downfall, dim ruin and dust-clouds fly in
      the winter wind. Had Lyons been of soft stuff, it had all
      vanished in those weeks, and the Jacobin prophecy had been
      fulfilled. But Towns are not built of soap-froth; Lyons Town is
      built of stone. Lyons, though it rebelled against the Republic,
      _is_ to this day.

      Neither have the Lyons Girondins all one neck, that you could
      despatch it at one swoop. Revolutionary Tribunal here, and
      Military Commission, guillotining, fusillading, do what they can:
      the kennels of the Place des Terreaux run red; mangled corpses
      roll down the Rhone. Collot d’Herbois, they say, was once hissed
      on the Lyons stage: but with what sibilation, of world-catcall or
      hoarse Tartarean Trumpet, will ye hiss him now, in this his new
      character of Convention Representative,—not to be repeated! Two
      hundred and nine men are marched forth over the River, to be shot
      in mass, by musket and cannon, in the Promenade of the Brotteaux.
      It is the second of such scenes; the first was of some Seventy.
      The corpses of the first were flung into the Rhone, but the Rhone
      stranded some; so these now, of the second lot, are to be buried
      on land. Their one long grave is dug; they stand ranked, by the
      loose mould-ridge; the younger of them singing the Marseillaise.
      Jacobin National Guards give fire; but have again to give fire,
      and again; and to take the bayonet and the spade, for though the
      doomed all fall, they do not all die;—and it becomes a butchery
      too horrible for speech. So that the very Nationals, as they
      fire, turn away their faces. Collot, snatching the musket from
      one such National, and levelling it with unmoved countenance,
      says ‘It is thus a Republican ought to fire.’

      This is the second Fusillade, and happily the last: it is found
      too hideous; even inconvenient. They were Two hundred and nine
      marched out; one escaped at the end of the Bridge: yet behold,
      when you count the corpses, they are Two hundred and _ten_. Rede
      us this riddle, O Collot? After long guessing, it is called to
      mind that two individuals, here in the Brotteaux ground, did
      attempt to leave the rank, protesting with agony that they were
      not condemned men, that they were Police Commissaries: which two
      we repulsed, and disbelieved, and shot with the rest![706] Such
      is the vengeance of an enraged Republic. Surely this, according
      to Barrère’s phrase, is Justice “under rough forms, _sous des
      formes acerbes_.” But the Republic, as Fouché says, must ‘march
      to Liberty over corpses.’ Or again as Barrère has it: ‘None but
      the dead do not come back, _Il n’y a que les morts qui ne
      reviennent pas_.’ Terror hovers far and wide: “The Guillotine
      goes not ill.”

      But before quitting those Southern regions, over which History
      can cast only glances from aloft, she will alight for a moment,
      and look fixedly at one point: the Siege of Toulon. Much
      battering and bombarding, heating of balls in furnaces or
      farm-houses, serving of artillery well and ill, attacking of
      Ollioules Passes, Forts Malbosquet, there has been: as yet to
      small purpose. We have had General Cartaux here, a whilom Painter
      elevated in the troubles of Marseilles; General Doppet, a whilom
      Medical man elevated in the troubles of Piemont, who, under
      Crancé, took Lyons, but cannot take Toulon. Finally we have
      General Dugommier, a pupil of Washington. Convention
      _Représentans_ also we have had; Barrases, Salicettis,
      Robespierres the Younger:—also an Artillery _Chef de brigade_, of
      extreme diligence, who often takes his nap of sleep among the
      guns; a short taciturn, olive-complexioned young man, not unknown
      to us, by name Buonaparte: one of the best Artillery-officers yet
      met with. And still Toulon is not taken. It is the fourth month
      now; December, in slave-style; _Frostarious_ or _Frimaire_, in
      new-style: and still their cursed Red-Blue Flag flies there. They
      are provisioned from the Sea; they have seized all heights,
      felling wood, and fortifying themselves; like the coney, they
      have built their nest in the rocks.

      Meanwhile, _Frostarious_ is not yet become _Snowous_ or _Nivose_,
      when a Council of War is called; Instructions have just arrived
      from Government and _Salut Public_. Carnot, in _Salut Public_,
      has sent us a plan of siege: on which plan General Dugommier has
      this criticism to make, Commissioner Salicetti has that; and
      criticisms and plans are very various; when that young Artillery
      Officer ventures to speak; the same whom we saw snatching sleep
      among the guns, who has emerged several times in this
      History,—the name of him Napoleon Buonaparte. It is his humble
      opinion, for he has been gliding about with spy-glasses, with
      thoughts, That a certain Fort l’Eguillette can be clutched, as
      with lion-spring, on the sudden; wherefrom, were it once ours,
      the very heart of Toulon might be battered, the English Lines
      were, so to speak, turned inside out, and Hood and our Natural
      Enemies must next day either put to sea, or be burnt to ashes.
      Commissioners arch their eyebrows, with negatory sniff: who is
      this young gentleman with more wit than we all? Brave veteran
      Dugommier, however, thinks the idea worth a word; questions the
      young gentleman; becomes convinced; and there is for issue, Try
      it.

      On the taciturn bronze-countenance, therefore, things being now
      all ready, there sits a grimmer gravity than ever, compressing a
      hotter central-fire than ever. Yonder, thou seest, is Fort
      l’Eguillette; a desperate lion-spring, yet a possible one; this
      day to be tried!—Tried it is; and found _good_. By stratagem and
      valour, stealing through ravines, plunging fiery through the
      fire-tempest, Fort l’Eguillette is clutched at, is carried; the
      smoke having cleared, wiser the Tricolor fly on it: the
      bronze-complexioned young man was right. Next morning, Hood,
      finding the interior of his lines exposed, his defences turned
      inside out, makes for his shipping. Taking such Royalists as
      wished it on board with him, he weighs anchor: on this 19th of
      December 1793, Toulon is once more the Republic’s!

      Cannonading has ceased at Toulon; and now the guillotining and
      fusillading may begin. Civil horrors, truly: but at least that
      infamy of an English domination is purged away. Let there be
      Civic Feast universally over France: so reports Barrère, or
      Painter David; and the Convention assist in a body.[707] Nay, it
      is said, these infamous English (with an attention rather to
      their own interests than to ours) set fire to our store-houses,
      arsenals, warships in Toulon Harbour, before weighing; some score
      of brave warships, the only ones we now had! However, it did not
      prosper, though the flame spread far and high; some two ships
      were burnt, not more; the very galley-slaves ran with buckets to
      quench. These same proud Ships, Ships _l’Orient_ and the rest,
      have to carry this same young Man to Egypt first: not yet can
      they be changed to ashes, or to Sea-Nymphs; not yet to
      sky-rockets, O Ship _l’Orient_, nor became the prey of
      England,—before their time!

      And so, over France universally, there is Civic Feast and
      high-tide: and Toulon sees fusillading, grape-shotting in mass,
      as Lyons saw; and “death is poured out in great floods, _vomie à
      grands flots_” and Twelve thousand Masons are requisitioned from
      the neighbouring country, to raze Toulon from the face of the
      Earth. For it is to be razed, so reports Barrère; all but the
      National Shipping Establishments; and to be called henceforth not
      Toulon, but _Port of the Mountain_. There in black death-cloud we
      must leave it;—hoping only that Toulon too is built of stone;
      that perhaps even Twelve thousand Masons cannot pull it down,
      till the fit pass.

      One begins to be sick of “death vomited in great floods.”
      Nevertheless hearest thou not, O reader (for the sound reaches
      through centuries), in the dead December and January nights, over
      Nantes Town,—confused noises, as of musketry and tumult, as of
      rage and lamentation; mingling with the everlasting moan of the
      Loire waters there? Nantes Town is sunk in sleep; but
      _Représentant_ Carrier is not sleeping, the wool-capped Company
      of Marat is not sleeping. Why unmoors that flatbottomed craft,
      that _gabarre;_ about eleven at night; with Ninety Priests under
      hatches? They are going to Belle Isle? In the middle of the Loire
      stream, on signal given, the gabarre is scuttled; she sinks with
      all her cargo. “Sentence of Deportation,” writes Carrier, “was
      executed _vertically_.” The Ninety Priests, with their
      gabarre-coffin, lie deep! It is the first of the _Noyades_, what
      we may call _Drownages_, of Carrier; which have become famous
      forever.

      Guillotining there was at Nantes, till the Headsman sank worn
      out: then fusillading “in the Plain of Saint-Mauve;” little
      children fusilladed, and women with children at the breast;
      children and women, by the hundred and twenty; and by the five
      hundred, so hot is La Vendée: till the very Jacobins grew sick,
      and all but the Company of Marat cried, Hold! Wherefore now we
      have got Noyading; and on the 24th night of _Frostarious_ year 2,
      which is 14th of December 1793, we have a second Noyade:
      consisting of “a Hundred and Thirty-eight persons.”[708]

      Or why waste a gabarre, sinking it with them? Fling them out;
      fling them out, with their hands tied: pour a continual hail of
      lead over all the space, till the last struggler of them be sunk!
      Unsound sleepers of Nantes, and the Sea-Villages thereabouts,
      hear the musketry amid the night-winds; wonder what the meaning
      of it is. And women were in that gabarre; whom the Red Nightcaps
      were stripping naked; who begged, in their agony, that their
      smocks might not be stript from them. And young children were
      thrown in, their mothers vainly pleading: ‘Wolflings,’ answered
      the Company of Marat, ‘who would grow to be wolves.’

      By degrees, daylight itself witnesses Noyades: women and men are
      tied together, feet and feet, hands and hands: and flung in: this
      they call _Mariage Républicain_, Republican Marriage. Cruel is
      the panther of the woods, the she-bear bereaved of her whelps:
      but there is in man a hatred crueller than that. Dumb, out of
      suffering now, as pale swoln corpses, the victims tumble
      confusedly seaward along the Loire stream; the tide rolling them
      back: clouds of ravens darken the River; wolves prowl on the
      shoal-places: Carrier writes, “_Quel torrent révolutionnaire_,
      What a torrent of Revolution!” For the man is rabid; and the Time
      is rabid. These are the Noyades of Carrier; twenty-five by the
      tale, for what is done in darkness comes to be investigated in
      sunlight:[709] not to be forgotten for centuries,—We will turn to
      another aspect of the Consummation of Sansculottism; leaving this
      as the blackest.

      But indeed men are all rabid; as the Time is. Representative
      Lebon, at Arras, dashes his sword into the blood flowing from the
      Guillotine; exclaims, ‘How I like it!’ Mothers, they say, by his
      order, have to stand by while the Guillotine devours their
      children: a band of music is stationed near; and, at the fall of
      every head, strikes up its _ça-ira_.[710] In the Burgh of
      Bedouin, in the Orange region, the Liberty-tree has been cut down
      over night. Representative Maignet, at Orange, hears of it; burns
      Bedouin Burgh to the last dog-hutch; guillotines the inhabitants,
      or drives them into the caves and hills.[711] Republic One and
      Indivisible! She is the newest Birth of Nature’s waste inorganic
      Deep, which men name Orcus, Chaos, primeval Night; and knows one
      law, that of self-preservation. _Tigresse Nationale:_ meddle not
      with a whisker of her! Swift-crushing is her stroke; look what a
      paw she spreads;—pity has not entered her heart.

      Prudhomme, the dull-blustering Printer and Able Editor, as yet a
      Jacobin Editor, will become a renegade one, and publish large
      volumes on these matters, _Crimes of the Revolution;_ adding
      innumerable lies withal, as if the truth were not sufficient. We,
      for our part, find it more edifying to know, one good time, that
      this Republic and National Tigress _is_ a New Birth; a Fact of
      Nature among Formulas, in an Age of Formulas; and to look,
      oftenest in silence, how the so genuine Nature-Fact will demean
      itself among these. For the Formulas are partly genuine, partly
      delusive, supposititious: we call them, in the language of
      metaphor, regulated modelled _shapes;_ some of which have bodies
      and life still in them; most of which, according to a German
      Writer, have only emptiness, “glass-eyes glaring on you with a
      ghastly affectation of life, and in their interior unclean
      accumulation of beetles and spiders!” But the Fact, let all men
      observe, is a genuine and sincere one; the sincerest of Facts:
      terrible in its sincerity, as very Death. Whatsoever is equally
      sincere may front it, and beard it; but whatsoever is _not?_—


      Chapter 3.5.IV.
      Carmagnole complete.

      Simultaneously with this Tophet-black aspect, there unfolds
      itself another aspect, which one may call a Tophet-red aspect:
      the Destruction of the Catholic Religion; and indeed, for the
      time being of Religion itself. We saw Romme’s New Calendar
      establish its _Tenth_ Day of Rest; and asked, what would become
      of the Christian Sabbath? The Calendar is hardly a month old,
      till all this is set at rest. Very singular, as Mercier observes:
      last _Corpus-Christi_ Day 1792, the whole world, and Sovereign
      Authority itself, walked in religious gala, with a quite devout
      air;—Butcher Legendre, supposed to be irreverent, was like to be
      massacred in his Gig, as the thing went by. A Gallican Hierarchy,
      and Church, and Church Formulas seemed to flourish, a little
      brown-leaved or so, but not browner than of late years or
      decades; to flourish, far and wide, in the sympathies of an
      unsophisticated People; defying Philosophism, Legislature and the
      Encyclopédie. Far and wide, alas, like a brown-leaved
      Vallombrosa; which waits but one whirlblast of the November wind,
      and in an hour stands bare! Since that _Corpus-Christi_ Day,
      Brunswick has come, and the Emigrants, and La Vendée, and
      eighteen months of Time: to all flourishing, especially to
      brown-leaved flourishing, there comes, were it never so slowly,
      an end.

      On the 7th of November, a certain Citoyen Parens, Curate of
      Boissise-le-Bertrand, writes to the Convention that he has all
      his life been preaching a lie, and is grown weary of doing it;
      wherefore he will now lay down his Curacy and stipend, and begs
      that an august Convention would give him something else to live
      upon. “_Mention honorable_,” shall we give him? Or “reference to
      Committee of Finances?” Hardly is this got decided, when goose
      Gobel, Constitutional Bishop of Paris, with his Chapter, with
      Municipal and Departmental escort in red nightcaps, makes his
      appearance, to do as Parens has done. Goose Gobel will now
      acknowledge “no Religion but Liberty;” therefore he doffs his
      Priest-gear, and receives the Fraternal embrace. To the joy of
      Departmental Momoro, of Municipal Chaumettes and Héberts, of
      Vincent and the Revolutionary Army! Chaumette asks, Ought there
      not, in these circumstances, to be among our intercalary Days
      Sans-breeches, a Feast of Reason?[712] Proper surely! Let Atheist
      Maréchal, Lalande, and little Atheist Naigeon rejoice; let
      Clootz, Speaker of Mankind, present to the Convention his
      _Evidences of the Mahometan Religion_, “a work evincing the
      nullity of all Religions,”—with thanks. There shall be Universal
      Republic now, thinks Clootz; and “one God only, _Le Peuple_.”

      The French Nation is of gregarious imitative nature; it needed
      but a fugle-motion in this matter; and goose Gobel, driven by
      Municipality and force of circumstances, has given one. What Curé
      will be behind him of Boissise; what Bishop behind him of Paris?
      Bishop Grégoire, indeed, courageously declines; to the sound of
      ‘We force no one; let Grégoire consult his conscience;’ but
      Protestant and Romish by the hundred volunteer and assent. From
      far and near, all through November into December, till the work
      is accomplished, come Letters of renegation, come Curates who are
      “learning to be Carpenters,” Curates with their new-wedded Nuns:
      has not the Day of Reason dawned, very swiftly, and become noon?
      From sequestered Townships comes Addresses, stating plainly,
      though in Patois dialect, That “they will have no more to do with
      the black animal called Curay, _animal noir, appellé
      Curay_.”[713]

      Above all things there come Patriotic Gifts, of Church-furniture.
      The remnant of bells, except for tocsin, descend from their
      belfries, into the National meltingpot, to make cannon. Censers
      and all sacred vessels are beaten broad; of silver, they are fit
      for the poverty-stricken Mint; of pewter, let them become bullets
      to shoot the “enemies of _du genre humain_.” Dalmatics of plush
      make breeches for him who has none; linen stoles will clip into
      shirts for the Defenders of the Country: old-clothesmen, Jew or
      Heathen, drive the briskest trade. Chalier’s Ass Procession, at
      Lyons, was but a type of what went on, in those same days, in all
      Towns. In all Towns and Townships as quick as the guillotine may
      go, so quick goes the axe and the wrench: sacristies, lutrins,
      altar-rails are pulled down; the Mass Books torn into cartridge
      papers: men dance the Carmagnole all night about the bonfire. All
      highways jingle with metallic Priest-tackle, beaten broad; sent
      to the Convention, to the poverty-stricken Mint. Good Sainte
      Geneviève’s _Chasse_ is let down: alas, to be burst open, this
      time, and burnt on the Place de Grève. Saint Louis’s shirt is
      burnt;—might not a Defender of the Country have had it? At
      Saint-Denis Town, no longer Saint-Denis but _Franciade_,
      Patriotism has been down among the Tombs, rummaging; the
      Revolutionary Army has taken spoil. This, accordingly, is what
      the streets of Paris saw:

      “Most of these persons were still drunk, with the brandy they had
      swallowed out of chalices;—eating mackerel on the patenas!
      Mounted on Asses, which were housed with Priests’ cloaks, they
      reined them with Priests’ stoles: they held clutched with the
      same hand communion-cup and sacred wafer. They stopped at the
      doors of Dramshops; held out ciboriums: and the landlord, stoop
      in hand, had to fill them thrice. Next came Mules high-laden with
      crosses, chandeliers, censers, holy-water vessels,
      hyssops;—recalling to mind the Priests of Cybele, whose panniers,
      filled with the instruments of their worship, served at once as
      storehouse, sacristy and temple. In such equipage did these
      profaners advance towards the Convention. They enter there, in an
      immense train, ranged in two rows; all masked like mummers in
      fantastic sacerdotal vestments; bearing on hand-barrows their
      heaped plunder,—ciboriums, suns, candelabras, plates of gold and
      silver.”[714]

      The Address we do not give; for indeed it was in strophes, sung
      _vivâ voce_, with all the parts;—Danton glooming considerably, in
      his place; and demanding that there be prose and decency in
      future.[715] Nevertheless the captors of such _spolia opima_
      crave, not untouched with liquor, permission to dance the
      Carmagnole also on the spot: whereto an exhilarated Convention
      cannot but accede. Nay, “several Members,” continues the
      exaggerative Mercier, who was not there to witness, being in
      Limbo now, as one of Duperret’s _Seventy-three_, “several
      Members, quitting their curule chairs, took the hand of girls
      flaunting in Priest’s vestures, and danced the Carmagnole along
      with them.” Such Old-Hallow-tide have they, in this year, once
      named of Grace, 1793.

      Out of which strange fall of Formulas, tumbling there in confused
      welter, betrampled by the Patriotic dance, is it not passing
      strange to see a _new_ Formula arise? For the human tongue is not
      adequate to speak what “triviality run distracted” there is in
      human nature. Black Mumbo-Jumbo of the woods, and most Indian
      Wau-waus, one can understand: but this of Procureur _Anaxagoras_
      whilom John-Peter Chaumette? We will say only: Man is a born
      idol-worshipper, _sight_-worshipper, so sensuous-imaginative is
      he; and also partakes much of the nature of the ape.

      For the same day, while this brave Carmagnole dance has hardly
      jigged itself out, there arrive Procureur Chaumette and
      Municipals and Departmentals, and with them the strangest
      freightage: a New Religion! Demoiselle Candeille, of the Opera; a
      woman fair to look upon, when well rouged: she, borne on
      palanquin shoulder-high; with red woolen nightcap; in azure
      mantle; garlanded with oak; holding in her hand the Pike of the
      Jupiter-_Peuple_, sails in; heralded by white young women girt in
      tricolor. Let the world consider it! This, O National Convention
      wonder of the universe, is our New Divinity; _Goddess of Reason_,
      worthy, and alone worthy of revering. Nay, were it too much to
      ask of an august National Representation that it also went with
      us to the _ci-devant_ Cathedral called of Notre-Dame, and
      executed a few strophes in worship of her?

      President and Secretaries give Goddess Candeille, borne at due
      height round their platform, successively the fraternal kiss;
      whereupon she, by decree, sails to the right-hand of the
      President and there alights. And now, after due pause and
      flourishes of oratory, the Convention, gathering its limbs, does
      get under way in the required procession towards
      Notre-Dame;—Reason, again in her litter, sitting in the van of
      them, borne, as one judges, by men in the Roman costume; escorted
      by wind-music, red nightcaps, and the madness of the world. And
      so straightway, Reason taking seat on the high-altar of
      Notre-Dame, the requisite worship or quasi-worship is, say the
      Newspapers, _executed;_ National Convention chanting “the _Hymn
      to Liberty_, words by Chénier, music by Gossec.” It is the first
      of the _Feasts of Reason;_ first communion-service of the New
      Religion of Chaumette.

      “The corresponding Festival in the Church of Saint-Eustache,”
      says Mercier, “offered the spectacle of a great tavern. The
      interior of the choir represented a landscape decorated with
      cottages and boskets of trees. Round the choir stood tables
      over-loaded with bottles, with sausages, pork-puddings, pastries
      and other meats. The guests flowed in and out through all doors:
      whosoever presented himself took part of the good things:
      children of eight, girls as well as boys, put hand to plate, in
      sign of Liberty; they drank also of the bottles, and their prompt
      intoxication created laughter. Reason sat in azure mantle aloft,
      in a serene manner; Cannoneers, pipe in mouth, serving her as
      acolytes. And out of doors,” continues the exaggerative man,
      “were mad multitudes dancing round the bonfire of
      Chapel-balustrades, of Priests’ and Canons’ stalls; and the
      dancers, I exaggerate nothing, the dancers nigh bare of breeches,
      neck and breast naked, stockings down, went whirling and
      spinning, like those Dust-vortexes, forerunners of Tempest and
      Destruction.”[716] At Saint-Gervais Church again there was a
      terrible “smell of herrings;” Section or Municipality having
      provided no food, no condiment, but left it to chance. Other
      mysteries, seemingly of a Cabiric or even Paphian character, we
      heave under the Veil, which appropriately stretches itself “along
      the pillars of the aisles,”—not to be lifted aside by the hand of
      History.

      But there is one thing we should like almost better to understand
      than any other: what Reason herself thought of it, all the while.
      What articulate words poor Mrs. Momoro, for example, uttered;
      when she had become ungoddessed again, and the Bibliopolist and
      she sat quiet at home, at supper? For he was an earnest man,
      Bookseller Momoro; and had notions of Agrarian Law. Mrs. Momoro,
      it is admitted, made one of the best Goddesses of Reason; though
      her teeth were a little defective. And now if the reader will
      represent to himself that such visible Adoration of Reason went
      on “all over the Republic,” through these November and December
      weeks, till the Church woodwork was burnt out, and the business
      otherwise completed, he will feel sufficiently what an adoring
      Republic it was, and without reluctance quit this part of the
      subject.

      Such gifts of Church-spoil are chiefly the work of the _Armée
      Révolutionnaire;_ raised, as we said, some time ago. It is an
      Army with portable guillotine: commanded by Playwright Ronsin in
      terrible moustachioes; and even by some uncertain shadow of Usher
      Maillard, the old Bastille Hero, Leader of the Menads, September
      Man in Grey! Clerk Vincent of the War-Office, one of Pache’s old
      Clerks, “with a head heated by the ancient orators,” had a main
      hand in the appointments, at least in the staff-appointments.

      But of the marchings and retreatings of these Six Thousand no
      Xenophon exists. Nothing, but an inarticulate hum, of cursing and
      sooty frenzy, surviving dubious in the memory of ages! They scour
      the country round Paris; seeking Prisoners; raising Requisitions;
      seeing that Edicts are executed, that the Farmers have thrashed
      sufficiently; lowering Church-bells or metallic Virgins.
      Detachments shoot forth dim, towards remote parts of France; nay
      new Provincial Revolutionary Armies rise dim, here and there, as
      Carrier’s Company of Marat, as Tallien’s Bourdeaux Troop; like
      sympathetic clouds in an atmosphere all electric. Ronsin, they
      say, admitted, in candid moments, that his troops were the elixir
      of the Rascality of the Earth. One sees them drawn up in
      market-places; travel-plashed, rough-bearded, in _carmagnole
      complète:_ the first exploit is to prostrate what Royal or
      Ecclesiastical monument, crucifix or the like, there may be; to
      plant a cannon at the steeple, fetch down the bell without
      climbing for it, bell and belfry together. This, however, it is
      said, depends somewhat on the size of the town: if the town
      contains much population, and these perhaps of a dubious choleric
      aspect, the Revolutionary Army will do its work gently, by ladder
      and wrench; nay perhaps will take its billet without work at all;
      and, refreshing itself with a little liquor and sleep, pass on to
      the next stage.[717] Pipe in cheek, sabre on thigh; in carmagnole
      complete!

      Such things have been; and may again be. Charles Second sent out
      his Highland Host over the Western Scotch Whigs; Jamaica Planters
      got Dogs from the Spanish Main to hunt their Maroons with: France
      too is bescoured with a Devil’s Pack, the baying of which, at
      this distance of half a century, still sounds in the mind’s ear.


      Chapter 3.5.V.
      Like a Thunder-Cloud.

      But the grand, and indeed substantially primary and generic
      aspect of the Consummation of Terror remains still to be looked
      at; nay blinkard History has for most part all but _over_looked
      this aspect, the soul of the whole: that which makes it terrible
      to the Enemies of France. Let Despotism and Cimmerian Coalitions
      consider. All French men and French things are in a State of
      Requisition; Fourteen Armies are got on foot; Patriotism, with
      all that it has of faculty in heart or in head, in soul or body
      or breeches-pocket, is rushing to the frontiers, to prevail or
      die! Busy sits Carnot, in _Salut Public;_ busy for his share, in
      “organising victory.” Not swifter pulses that Guillotine, in
      dread systole-diastole in the Place de la Révolution, than smites
      the Sword of Patriotism, smiting Cimmeria back to its own
      borders, from the sacred soil.

      In fact the Government is what we can call Revolutionary; and
      some men are “_à la hauteur_,” on a level with the circumstances;
      and others are not _à la hauteur_,—so much the worse for them.
      But the Anarchy, we may say, has _organised_ itself: Society is
      literally overset; its old forces working with mad activity, but
      in the inverse order; destructive and self-destructive.

      Curious to see how all still refers itself to some head and
      fountain; not even an Anarchy but must have a centre to revolve
      round. It is now some six months since the Committee of _Salut
      Public_ came into existence: some three months since Danton
      proposed that all power should be given it and “a sum of fifty
      millions,” and the “Government be declared Revolutionary.” He
      himself, since that day, would take no hand in it, though again
      and again solicited; but sits private in his place on the
      Mountain. Since that day, the Nine, or if they should even rise
      to Twelve have become permanent, always re-elected when their
      term runs out; _Salut Public, Sûreté Générale_ have assumed their
      ulterior form and mode of operating.

      Committee of Public Salvation, as supreme; of General Surety, as
      subaltern: these like a Lesser and Greater Council, most
      harmonious hitherto, have become the centre of all things. They
      ride this Whirlwind; they, raised by force of circumstances,
      insensibly, very strangely, thither to that dread height;—and
      guide it, and seem to guide it. Stranger set of Cloud-Compellers
      the Earth never saw. A Robespierre, a Billaud, a Collot, Couthon,
      Saint-Just; not to mention still meaner Amars, Vadiers, in
      _Sûreté Générale:_ these are your Cloud-Compellers. Small
      intellectual talent is necessary: indeed where among them, except
      in the head of Carnot, busied organising victory, would you find
      any? The talent is one of instinct rather. It is that of divining
      aright what this great dumb Whirlwind wishes and wills; that of
      willing, with more frenzy than any one, what all the world wills.
      To stand at no obstacles; to heed no considerations human or
      divine; to know well that, of divine or human, there is one thing
      needful, Triumph of the Republic, Destruction of the Enemies of
      the Republic! With this one spiritual endowment, and so few
      others, it is strange to see how a dumb inarticulately storming
      Whirlwind of things puts, as it were, its reins into your hand,
      and invites and compels you to be leader of it.

      Hard by, sits a Municipality of Paris; all in red nightcaps since
      the fourth of November last: a set of men fully “on a level with
      circumstances,” or even beyond it. Sleek Mayor Pache, studious to
      be safe in the middle; Chaumettes, Héberts, Varlets, and Henriot
      their great Commandant; not to speak of Vincent the War-clerk, of
      Momoros, Dobsents, and such like: all intent to have Churches
      plundered, to have Reason adored, Suspects cut down, and the
      Revolution triumph. Perhaps carrying the matter _too_ far? Danton
      was heard to grumble at the civic strophes; and to recommend
      prose and decency. Robespierre also grumbles that in overturning
      Superstition we did not mean to make a religion of Atheism. In
      fact, your Chaumette and Company constitute a kind of
      Hyper-Jacobinism, or rabid “Faction _des Enragés;_” which has
      given orthodox Patriotism some umbrage, of late months. To “know
      a Suspect on the streets:” what is this but bringing the _Law of
      the Suspect_ itself into ill odour? Men half-frantic, men zealous
      overmuch,—they toil there, in their red nightcaps, restlessly,
      rapidly, accomplishing what of Life is allotted them.

      And the Forty-four Thousand other Townships, each with
      revolutionary Committee, based on Jacobin Daughter Society;
      enlightened by the spirit of Jacobinism; quickened by the Forty
      Sous a-day!—The French Constitution spurned always at any thing
      like Two Chambers; and yet behold, has it not verily got Two
      Chambers? National Convention, elected for one; Mother of
      Patriotism, self-elected, for another! Mother of Patriotism has
      her Debates reported in the _Moniteur_, as important
      state-procedures; which indisputably they are. A Second Chamber
      of Legislature we call this Mother Society;—if perhaps it were
      not rather comparable to that old Scotch Body named _Lords of the
      Articles_, without whose origination, and signal given, the
      so-called Parliament could introduce no bill, could do no work?
      Robespierre himself, whose words are a law, opens his
      incorruptible lips copiously in the Jacobins Hall. Smaller
      Council of _Salut Public_, Greater Council of _Sûreté Générale_,
      all active Parties, come here to plead; to shape beforehand what
      decision they must arrive at, what destiny they have to expect.
      Now if a question arose, Which of those Two Chambers, Convention,
      or Lords of the Articles, was the _stronger?_ Happily they as yet
      go hand in hand.

      As for the National Convention, truly it has become a most
      composed Body. Quenched now the old effervescence; the
      Seventy-three locked in ward; once noisy Friends of the Girondins
      sunk all into silent men of the Plain, called even “Frogs of the
      Marsh,” _Crapauds du Marais!_ Addresses come, Revolutionary
      Church-plunder comes; Deputations, with prose, or strophes: these
      the Convention receives. But beyond this, the Convention has one
      thing mainly to do: to listen what _Salut Public_ proposes, and
      say, Yea.

      Bazire followed by Chabot, with some impetuosity, declared, one
      morning, that this was not the way of a Free Assembly. ‘There
      ought to be an Opposition side, a _Côté Droit_,’ cried Chabot;
      ‘if none else will form it, I will: people say to me, You will
      all get guillotined in your turn, first you and Bazire, then
      Danton, then Robespierre himself.’[718] So spake the Disfrocked,
      with a loud voice: next week, Bazire and he lie in the Abbaye;
      wending, one may fear, towards Tinville and the Axe; and “people
      say to me”—what seems to be proving true! Bazire’s blood was all
      inflamed with Revolution fever; with coffee and spasmodic
      dreams.[719] Chabot, again, how happy with his rich Jew-Austrian
      wife, late Fraulein Frey! But he lies in Prison; and his two
      Jew-Austrian Brothers-in-Law, the Bankers Frey, lie with him;
      waiting the urn of doom. Let a National Convention, therefore,
      take warning, and know its function. Let the Convention, all as
      one man, set its shoulder to the work; not with bursts of
      Parliamentary eloquence, but in quite other and serviceable ways!

      Convention Commissioners, what we ought to call Representatives,
      “_Représentans_ on mission,” fly, like the Herald Mercury, to all
      points of the Territory; carrying your behests far and wide. In
      their “round hat plumed with tricolor feathers, girt with flowing
      tricolor taffeta; in close frock, tricolor sash, sword and
      jack-boots,” these men are powerfuller than King or Kaiser. They
      say to whomso they meet, Do; and he must do it: all men’s goods
      are at their disposal; for France is as one huge City in Siege.
      They smite with Requisitions, and Forced-loan; they have the
      power of life and death. Saint-Just and Lebas order the rich
      classes of Strasburg to “strip off their shoes,” and send them to
      the Armies where as many as “ten thousand pairs” are needed.
      Also, that within four and twenty hours, “a thousand beds” are to
      be got ready;[720] wrapt in matting, and sent under way. For the
      time presses!—Like swift bolts, issuing from the fuliginous
      Olympus of _Salut Public_ rush these men, oftenest in pairs;
      scatter your thunder-orders over France; make France one enormous
      Revolutionary thunder-cloud.


      Chapter 3.5.VI.
      Do thy Duty.

      Accordingly alongside of these bonfires of Church balustrades,
      and sounds of fusillading and noyading, there rise quite another
      sort of fires and sounds: Smithy-fires and Proof-volleys for the
      manufacture of arms.

      Cut off from Sweden and the world, the Republic must learn to
      make steel for itself; and, by aid of Chemists, she has learnt
      it. Towns that knew only iron, now know steel: from their new
      dungeons at Chantilly, Aristocrats may hear the rustle of our new
      steel furnace there. Do not bells transmute themselves into
      cannon; iron stancheons into the white-weapon (_arme blanche_),
      by sword-cutlery? The wheels of Langres scream, amid their
      sputtering fire halo; grinding mere swords. The stithies of
      Charleville ring with gun-making. What say we, Charleville? Two
      hundred and fifty-eight Forges stand in the open spaces of Paris
      itself; a hundred and forty of them in the Esplanade of the
      Invalides, fifty-four in the Luxembourg Garden: so many Forges
      stand; grim Smiths beating and forging at lock and barrel there.
      The Clockmakers have come, requisitioned, to do the touch-holes,
      the hard-solder and filework. Five great Barges swing at anchor
      on the Seine Stream, loud with boring; the great press-drills
      grating harsh thunder to the general ear and heart. And deft
      Stock-makers do gouge and rasp; and all men bestir themselves,
      according to their cunning:—in the language of hope, it is
      reckoned that a “thousand finished muskets can be delivered
      daily.”[721] Chemists of the Republic have taught us miracles of
      swift tanning;[722] the cordwainer bores and stitches;—_not_ of
      “wood and pasteboard,” or he shall answer it to Tinville! The
      women sew tents and coats, the children scrape surgeon’s-lint,
      the old men sit in the market-places; able men are on march; all
      men in requisition: from Town to Town flutters, on the Heaven’s
      winds, this Banner, THE FRENCH PEOPLE RISEN AGAINST TYRANTS.

      All which is well. But now arises the question: What is to be
      done for saltpetre? Interrupted Commerce and the English Navy
      shut us out from saltpetre; and without saltpetre there is no
      gunpowder. Republican Science again sits meditative; discovers
      that saltpetre exists here and there, though in attenuated
      quantity: that old plaster of walls holds a sprinkling of
      it;—that the earth of the Paris Cellars holds a sprinkling of it,
      diffused through the common rubbish; that were these dug up and
      washed, saltpetre might be had. Whereupon swiftly, see! the
      Citoyens, with upshoved _bonnet rouge_, or with doffed bonnet,
      and hair toil-wetted; digging fiercely, each in his own cellar,
      for saltpetre. The Earth-heap rises at every door; the Citoyennes
      with hod and bucket carrying it up; the Citoyens, pith in every
      muscle, shovelling and digging: for life and saltpetre. Dig my
      _braves;_ and right well speed ye. What of saltpetre is essential
      the Republic shall not want.

      Consummation of Sansculottism has many aspects and tints: but the
      brightest tint, really of a solar or stellar brightness, is this
      which the Armies give it. That same fervour of Jacobinism which
      internally fills France with hatred, suspicions, scaffolds and
      Reason-worship, does, on the Frontiers, shew itself as a glorious
      _Pro patria mori_. Ever since Dumouriez’s defection, three
      Convention Representatives attend every General. Committee of
      _Salut_ has sent them, often with this Laconic order only: ‘Do
      thy duty, _Fais ton devoir_.’ It is strange, under what
      impediments the fire of Jacobinism, like other such fires, will
      burn. These Soldiers have shoes of wood and pasteboard, or go
      booted in hayropes, in dead of winter; they skewer a bass mat
      round their shoulders, and are destitute of most things. What
      then? It is for Rights of Frenchhood, of Manhood, that they
      fight: the unquenchable spirit, here as elsewhere, works
      miracles. ‘With steel and bread,’ says the Convention
      Representative, ‘one may get to China.’ The Generals go fast to
      the guillotine; justly and unjustly. From which what inference?
      This among others: That ill-success is death; that in victory
      alone is life! To conquer or die is no theatrical palabra, in
      these circumstances: but a practical truth and necessity. All
      Girondism, Halfness, Compromise is swept away. Forward, ye
      Soldiers of the Republic, captain and man! Dash with your Gaelic
      impetuosity, on Austria, England, Prussia, Spain, Sardinia; Pitt,
      Cobourg, York, and the Devil and the World! Behind us is but the
      Guillotine; before us is Victory, Apotheosis and Millennium
      without end!

      See accordingly, on all Frontiers, how the Sons of Night,
      astonished after short triumph, do recoil;—the Sons of the
      Republic flying at them, with wild _Ça-ira_ or Marseillese _Aux
      armes_, with the temper of cat-o’-mountain, or demon incarnate;
      which no Son of Night can stand! Spain, which came bursting
      through the Pyrenees, rustling with Bourbon banners, and went
      conquering here and there for a season, falters at such
      cat-o’-mountain welcome; draws itself in again; too happy now
      were the Pyrenees impassable. Not only does Dugommier, conqueror
      of Toulon, drive Spain back; he invades Spain. General Dugommier
      invades it by the Eastern Pyrenees; General Muller shall invade
      it by the Western. _Shall_, that is the word: Committee of _Salut
      Public_ has said it; Representative Cavaignac, on mission there,
      must see it done. Impossible! cries Muller,—Infallible! answers
      Cavaignac. Difficulty, impossibility, is to no purpose. ‘The
      Committee is deaf on that side of its head,’ answers Cavaignac,
      ‘_n’entend pas de cette oreille là_. How many wantest thou, of
      men, of horses, cannons? Thou shalt have them. Conquerors,
      conquered or hanged, forward we must.’[723] Which things also,
      even as the Representative spake them, were _done_. The Spring of
      the new Year sees Spain invaded: and redoubts are carried, and
      Passes and Heights of the most scarped description; Spanish
      Field-officerism struck mute at such cat-o’-mountain spirit, the
      cannon forgetting to fire.[724] Swept are the Pyrenees; Town
      after Town flies up, burst by terror or the petard. In the course
      of another year, Spain will crave Peace; acknowledge its sins and
      the Republic; nay, in Madrid, there will be joy as for a victory,
      that even Peace is got.

      Few things, we repeat, can be notabler than these Convention
      Representatives, with their power more than kingly. Nay at bottom
      are they not Kings, _Able-men_, of a sort; chosen from the Seven
      Hundred and Forty-nine French Kings; with this order, Do thy
      duty? Representative Levasseur, of small stature, by trade a mere
      pacific Surgeon-Accoucheur, has mutinies to quell; mad hosts (mad
      at the Doom of Custine) bellowing far and wide; he alone amid
      them, the one small Representative,—small, but as hard as flint,
      which also carries _fire_ in it! So too, at Hondschooten, far in
      the afternoon, he declares that the battle is not lost; that it
      must be gained; and fights, himself, with his own obstetric
      hand;—horse shot under him, or say on foot, “up to the haunches
      in tide-water;” cutting stoccado and passado there, in defiance
      of Water, Earth, Air and Fire, the choleric little Representative
      that he was! Whereby, as natural, Royal Highness of York had to
      withdraw,—occasionally at full gallop; like to be swallowed by
      the tide: and his Siege of Dunkirk became a dream, realising only
      much loss of beautiful siege-artillery and of brave lives.[725]

      General Houchard, it would appear, stood behind a hedge, on this
      Hondschooten occasion; wherefore they have since guillotined him.
      A new General Jourdan, late Serjeant Jourdan, commands in his
      stead: he, in long-winded Battles of Watigny, “murderous
      artillery-fire mingling itself with sound of Revolutionary
      battle-hymns,” forces Austria behind the Sambre again; has hopes
      of purging the soil of Liberty. With hard wrestling, with
      artillerying and _ça-ira_-ing, it shall be done. In the course of
      a new Summer, Valenciennes will see itself beleaguered; Condé
      beleaguered; whatsoever is yet in the hands of Austria
      beleaguered and bombarded: nay, by Convention Decree, we even
      summon them _all_ “either to surrender in twenty-four hours, or
      else be put to the sword;”—a high saying, which, though it
      remains unfulfilled, may shew what spirit one is of.

      Representative Drouet, as an Old-Dragoon, could fight by a kind
      of second nature; but he was unlucky. Him, in a night-foray at
      Maubeuge, the Austrians took alive, in October last. They stript
      him almost naked, he says; making a shew of him, as King-taker of
      Varennes. They flung him into carts; sent him far into the
      interior of Cimmeria, to “a Fortress called Spitzberg” on the
      Danube River; and left him there, at an elevation of perhaps a
      hundred and fifty feet, to his own bitter reflections.
      Reflections; and also devices! For the indomitable Old-dragoon
      constructs wing-machinery, of Paperkite; saws window-bars:
      determines to fly down. He will seize a boat, will follow the
      River’s course: land somewhere in Crim Tartary, in the Black Sea
      or Constantinople region: _à la_ Sindbad! Authentic History,
      accordingly, looking far into Cimmeria, discerns dimly a
      phenomenon. In the dead night-watches, the Spitzberg sentry is
      near fainting with terror: Is it a huge vague Portent descending
      through the night air? It is a huge National Representative
      Old-dragoon, descending by Paperkite; too rapidly, alas! For
      Drouet had taken with him “a small provision-store, twenty pounds
      weight or thereby;” which proved accelerative: so he fell,
      fracturing his leg; and lay there, moaning, till day dawned, till
      you could discern clearly that he was not a Portent but a
      Representative![726]

      Or see Saint-Just, in the Lines of Weissembourg, though
      physically of a timid apprehensive nature, how he charges with
      his “Alsatian Peasants armed hastily” for the nonce; the solemn
      face of him blazing into flame; his black hair and tricolor
      hat-taffeta flowing in the breeze; These our Lines of
      Weissembourg were indeed forced, and Prussia and the Emigrants
      rolled through: but we _re_-force the Lines of Weissembourg; and
      Prussia and the Emigrants roll back again still faster,—hurled
      with bayonet charges and fiery _ça-ira_-ing.

      _Ci-devant_ Sergeant Pichegru, _ci-devant_ Sergeant Hoche, risen
      now to be Generals, have done wonders here. Tall Pichegru was
      meant for the Church; was Teacher of Mathematics once, in Brienne
      School,—his remarkablest Pupil there was the Boy Napoleon
      Buonaparte. He then, not in the sweetest humour, enlisted
      exchanging ferula for musket; and had got the length of the
      halberd, beyond which nothing could be hoped; when the Bastille
      barriers falling made passage for him, and he is here. Hoche bore
      a hand at the literal overturn of the Bastille; he was, as we
      saw, a Serjeant of the _Gardes Françaises_, spending his pay in
      rushlights and cheap editions of books. How the Mountains are
      burst, and many an Enceladus is disemprisoned: and Captains
      founding on Four parchments of Nobility, are blown with their
      parchments across the Rhine, into Lunar Limbo!

      What high feats of arms, therefore, were done in these Fourteen
      Armies; and how, for love of Liberty and hope of Promotion,
      low-born valour cut its desperate way to Generalship; and, from
      the central Carnot in _Salut Public_ to the outmost drummer on
      the Frontiers, men strove for their Republic, let readers fancy.
      The snows of Winter, the flowers of Summer continue to be stained
      with warlike blood. Gaelic impetuosity mounts ever higher with
      victory; spirit of Jacobinism weds itself to national vanity: the
      Soldiers of the Republic are becoming, as we prophesied, very
      Sons of Fire. Barefooted, barebacked: but with bread and iron you
      can get to China! It is one Nation against the whole world; but
      the Nation has that within her which the whole world will not
      conquer. Cimmeria, astonished, recoils faster or slower; all
      round the Republic there rises fiery, as it were, a magic ring of
      musket-volleying and _ça-ira_-ing. Majesty of Prussia, as Majesty
      of Spain, will by and by acknowledge his sins and the Republic:
      and make a Peace of Bâle.

      Foreign Commerce, Colonies, Factories in the East and in the
      West, are fallen or falling into the hands of sea-ruling Pitt,
      enemy of human nature. Nevertheless what sound is this that we
      hear, on the first of June, 1794; sound of as war-thunder borne
      from the Ocean too; of tone most piercing? War-thunder from off
      the Brest waters: Villaret-Joyeuse and English Howe, after long
      manœuvring have ranked themselves there; and are belching fire.
      The enemies of human nature are on their own element; cannot be
      conquered; cannot be kept from conquering. Twelve hours of raging
      cannonade; sun now sinking westward through the battle-smoke: six
      French Ships taken, the Battle lost; what Ship soever can still
      sail, making off! But how is it, then, with that _Vengeur_ Ship,
      she neither strikes nor makes off? She is lamed, she cannot make
      off; strike she will not. Fire rakes her fore and aft, from
      victorious enemies; the _Vengeur_ is sinking. Strong are ye,
      Tyrants of the Sea; yet we also, are we weak? Lo! all flags,
      streamers, jacks, every rag of tricolor that will yet run on
      rope, fly rustling aloft: the whole crew crowds to the upper
      deck; and, with universal soul-maddening yell, shouts _Vive la
      République_,—sinking, sinking. She staggers, she lurches, her
      last drunk whirl; Ocean yawns abysmal: down rushes the _Vengeur_,
      carrying _Vive la République_ along with her, unconquerable, into
      Eternity![727] Let foreign Despots think of that. There is an
      Unconquerable in man, when he stands on his Rights of Man: let
      Despots and Slaves and all people know this, and only them that
      stand on the Wrongs of Man tremble to know it.—So has History
      written, nothing doubting, of the sunk _Vengeur_.

      —Reader! Mendez Pinto, Münchausen, Cagliostro, Psalmanazar have
      been great; but they are not the greatest. O Barrère, Barrère,
      Anacreon of the Guillotine! must inquisitive pictorial History,
      in a new edition, ask again, “How _is_ it with the _Vengeur_,” in
      this its glorious suicidal sinking; and, with resentful brush,
      dash a bend-sinister of contumelious lamp-black through thee and
      it? Alas, alas! The _Vengeur_, after fighting bravely, did sink
      altogether as other ships do, her captain and above two-hundred
      of her crew escaping gladly in British boats; and this same
      enormous inspiring Feat, and rumour “of sound most piercing,”
      turns out to be an enormous inspiring Non-entity, extant nowhere
      save, as falsehood, in the brain of Barrère! Actually so.[728]
      Founded, like the World itself, on _Nothing;_ proved by
      Convention Report, by solemn Convention Decree and Decrees, and
      wooden “_Model of the Vengeur;_” believed, bewept, besung by the
      whole French People to this hour, it may be regarded as Barrère’s
      masterpiece; the largest, most inspiring piece of _blague_
      manufactured, for some centuries, by any man or nation. As such,
      and not otherwise, be it henceforth memorable.


      Chapter 3.5.VII.
      Flame-Picture.

      In this manner, mad-blazing with flame of all imaginable tints,
      from the red of Tophet to the stellar-bright, blazes off this
      Consummation of Sansculottism.

      But the hundredth part of the things that were done, and the
      thousandth part of the things that were projected and decreed to
      be done, would tire the tongue of History. Statue of the _Peuple
      Souverain_, high as Strasburg Steeple; which shall fling its
      shadow from the Pont Neuf over Jardin National and Convention
      Hall;—enormous, in Painter David’s head! With other the like
      enormous Statues not a few: realised in paper Decree. For,
      indeed, the Statue of Liberty herself is still but Plaster in the
      Place de la Révolution! Then Equalisation of Weights and
      Measures, with decimal division; Institutions, of Music and of
      much else; Institute in general; School of Arts, School of Mars,
      _Elèves de la Patrie_, Normal Schools: amid such Gun-boring,
      Altar-burning, Saltpetre-digging, and miraculous improvements in
      Tannery!

      What, for example, is this that Engineer Chappe is doing, in the
      Park of Vincennes? In the Park of Vincennes; and onwards, they
      say, in the Park of Lepelletier Saint-Fargeau the assassinated
      Deputy; and still onwards to the Heights of Ecouen and further,
      he has scaffolding set up, has posts driven in; wooden arms with
      elbow joints are jerking and fugling in the air, in the most
      rapid mysterious manner! Citoyens ran up suspicious. Yes, O
      Citoyens, we are signaling: it is a device this, worthy of the
      Republic; a thing for what we will call _Far-writing_ without the
      aid of postbags; in Greek, it shall be named
      Telegraph.—_Télégraphe sacré!_ answers Citoyenism: For writing to
      Traitors, to Austria?—and tears it down. Chappe had to escape,
      and get a new Legislative Decree. Nevertheless he has
      accomplished it, the indefatigable Chappe: this his _Far-writer_,
      with its wooden arms and elbow-joints, can intelligibly signal;
      and lines of them are set up, to the North Frontiers and
      elsewhither. On an Autumn evening of the Year Two, Far-writer
      having just written that Condé Town has surrendered to us, we
      send from Tuileries Convention Hall this response in the shape of
      Decree: “The name of Condé is changed to _Nord-Libre_,
      North-Free. The Army of the North ceases not to merit well of the
      country.”—To the admiration of men! For lo, in some half hour,
      while the Convention yet debates, there arrives this new answer:
      “I inform thee, _je t’annonce_, Citizen President, that the
      decree of Convention, ordering change of the name Condé into
      _North-Free;_ and the other declaring that the Army of the North
      ceases not to merit well of the country, are transmitted and
      acknowledged by Telegraph. I have instructed my Officer at Lille
      to forward them to North-Free by express. _Signed_, CHAPPE.”[729]

      Or see, over Fleurus in the Netherlands, where General Jourdan,
      having now swept the soil of Liberty, and advanced thus far, is
      just about to fight, and sweep or be swept, things there not in
      the Heaven’s Vault, some Prodigy, seen by Austrian eyes and
      spyglasses: in the similitude of an enormous Windbag, with
      netting and enormous Saucer depending from it? A Jove’s Balance,
      O ye Austrian spyglasses? One saucer-hole of a Jove’s Balance;
      _your_ poor Austrian scale having kicked itself quite aloft, out
      of sight? By Heaven, answer the spyglasses, it is a Montgolfier,
      a Balloon, and they are making signals! Austrian cannon-battery
      barks at this Montgolfier; harmless as dog at the Moon: the
      Montgolfier makes its signals; detects what Austrian ambuscade
      there may be, and descends at its ease.[730] What will not these
      devils incarnate contrive?

      On the whole, is it not, O Reader, one of the strangest
      Flame-Pictures that ever painted itself; flaming off there, on
      its ground of Guillotine-black? And the nightly Theatres are
      Twenty-three; and the _Salons de danse_ are sixty: full of mere
      _Egalité, Fraternite_ and _Carmagnole_. And Section
      Committee-rooms are Forty-eight; redolent of tobacco and brandy:
      vigorous with twenty-pence a-day, coercing the suspect. And the
      Houses of Arrest are Twelve for Paris alone; crowded and even
      crammed. And at all turns, you need your “Certificate of Civism;”
      be it for going out, or for coming in; nay without it you cannot,
      for money, get your daily ounces of bread. Dusky red-capped
      Baker’s-queues; wagging themselves; not in silence! For we still
      live by Maximum, in all things; waited on by these two, Scarcity
      and Confusion. The faces of men are darkened with suspicion; with
      suspecting, or being suspect. The streets lie unswept; the ways
      unmended. Law has shut her Books; speaks little, save impromptu,
      through the throat of Tinville. Crimes go unpunished: not crimes
      against the Revolution.[731] “The number of foundling children,”
      as some compute, “is doubled.”

      How silent now sits Royalism; sits all Aristocratism;
      Respectability that kept its Gig! The honour now, and the safety,
      is to Poverty, not to Wealth. Your Citizen, who would be
      fashionable, walks abroad, with his Wife on his arm, in red wool
      nightcap, black shag spencer, and carmagnole complete.
      Aristocratism crouches low, in what shelter is still left;
      submitting to all requisitions, vexations; too happy to escape
      with life. Ghastly châteaus stare on you by the wayside;
      disroofed, diswindowed; which the National House-broker is
      peeling for the lead and ashlar. The old tenants hover
      disconsolate, over the Rhine with Condé; a spectacle to men.
      _Ci-devant_ Seigneur, exquisite in palate, will become an
      exquisite Restaurateur Cook in Hamburg; Ci-devant Madame,
      exquisite in dress, a successful _Marchande des Modes_ in London.
      In Newgate-Street, you meet M. le Marquis, with a rough deal on
      his shoulder, adze and jack-plane under arm; he has taken to the
      joiner trade; it being necessary to live (_faut
      vivre_).[732]—Higher than all Frenchmen the domestic Stock-jobber
      flourishes,—in a day of Paper-money. The Farmer also flourishes:
      “Farmers’ houses,” says Mercier, “have become like Pawn-brokers’
      shops;” all manner of furniture, apparel, vessels of gold and
      silver accumulate themselves there: bread is precious. The
      Farmer’s rent is Paper-money, and he alone of men has bread:
      Farmer is better than Landlord, and will himself become Landlord.

      And daily, we say, like a black Spectre, silently through that
      Life-tumult, passes the Revolution Cart; writing on the walls its
      MENE, MENE, _Thou art weighed, and found wanting!_ A Spectre with
      which one has grown familiar. Men have adjusted themselves:
      complaint issues not from that Death-tumbril. Weak women and
      _ci-devants_, their plumage and finery all tarnished, sit there;
      with a silent gaze, as if looking into the Infinite Black. The
      once light lip wears a curl of irony, uttering no word; and the
      Tumbril fares along. They may be guilty before Heaven, or not;
      they are guilty, we suppose, before the Revolution. Then, does
      not the Republic “coin money” of them, with its great axe? Red
      Nightcaps howl dire approval: the rest of Paris looks on; if with
      a sigh, that is much; Fellow-creatures whom sighing cannot help;
      whom black Necessity and Tinville have clutched.

      One other thing, or rather two other things, we will still
      mention; and no more: The Blond Perukes; the Tannery at Meudon.
      Great talk is of these _Perruques blondes:_ O Reader, they are
      made from the Heads of Guillotined women! The locks of a Duchess,
      in this way, may come to cover the scalp of a Cordwainer: her
      blond German Frankism his black Gaelic poll, if it be bald. Or
      they may be worn affectionately, as relics; rendering one
      suspect?[733] Citizens use them, not without mockery; of a rather
      cannibal sort.

      Still deeper into one’s heart goes that Tannery at Meudon; not
      mentioned among the other miracles of tanning! “At Meudon,” says
      Montgaillard with considerable calmness, “there was a Tannery of
      Human Skins; such of the Guillotined as seemed worth flaying: of
      which perfectly good wash-leather was made:” for breeches, and
      other uses. The skin of the men, he remarks, was superior in
      toughness (_consistance_) and quality to shamoy; that of women
      was good for almost nothing, being so soft in
      texture![734]—History looking back over Cannibalism, through
      _Purchas’s Pilgrims_ and all early and late Records, will perhaps
      find no terrestrial Cannibalism of a sort on the whole so
      detestable. It is a manufactured, soft-feeling, quietly elegant
      sort; a sort _perfide!_ Alas then, is man’s civilisation only a
      wrappage, through which the savage nature of him can still burst,
      infernal as ever? Nature still makes him; and has an Infernal in
      her as well as a Celestial.


      BOOK 3.VI.
      THERMIDOR


      Chapter 3.6.I.
      The Gods are athirst.

      What then is this Thing, called _La Révolution_, which, like an
      Angel of Death, hangs over France, noyading, fusillading,
      fighting, gun-boring, tanning human skins? _La Révolution_ is but
      so many Alphabetic Letters; a thing nowhere to be laid hands on,
      to be clapt under lock and key: where is it? what is it? It is
      the Madness that dwells in the hearts of men. In this man it is,
      and in that man; as a rage or as a terror, it is in all men.
      Invisible, impalpable; and yet no black Azrael, with wings spread
      over half a continent, with sword sweeping from sea to sea, could
      be a truer Reality.

      To explain, what is called explaining, the march of this
      Revolutionary Government, be no task of ours. Men cannot explain
      it. A paralytic Couthon, asking in the Jacobins, “what hast thou
      done to be hanged if the Counter-Revolution should arrive;” a
      sombre Saint-Just, not yet six-and-twenty, declaring that “for
      Revolutionists there is no rest but in the tomb;” a seagreen
      Robespierre converted into vinegar and gall; much more an Amar
      and Vadier, a Collot and Billaud: to inquire what thoughts,
      predetermination or prevision, might be in the head of these men!
      Record of their thought remains not; Death and Darkness have
      swept it out utterly. Nay if we even had their thought, all they
      could have articulately spoken to us, how insignificant a
      fraction were that of the Thing which realised itself, which
      decreed itself, on signal given by them! As has been said more
      than once, this Revolutionary Government is not a self-conscious
      but a blind fatal one. Each man, enveloped in his
      ambient-atmosphere of revolutionary fanatic Madness, rushes on,
      impelled and impelling; and has become a blind brute Force; no
      rest for him but in the grave! Darkness and the mystery of horrid
      cruelty cover it for us, in History; as they did in Nature. The
      chaotic Thunder-cloud, with its pitchy black, and its tumult of
      dazzling jagged fire, in a world all electric: thou wilt not
      undertake to shew how that comported itself,—what the secrets of
      its dark womb were; from what sources, with what specialities,
      the lightning it held did, in confused brightness of terror,
      strike forth, destructive and self-destructive, till it ended?
      Like a Blackness naturally of Erebus, which by will of Providence
      had for once mounted itself into dominion and the Azure: is not
      this properly the nature of Sansculottism consummating itself? Of
      which Erebus Blackness be it enough to discern that this and the
      other dazzling fire-bolt, dazzling fire-torrent, does by small
      Volition and great Necessity, verily issue,—in such and such
      succession; destructive so and so, self-destructive so and so:
      till it end.

      Royalism is extinct, “sunk,” as they say, “in the mud of the
      Loire;” Republicanism dominates without and within: what,
      therefore, on the 15th day of March, 1794, is this? Arrestment,
      sudden really as a bolt out of the Blue, has hit strange victims:
      Hébert _Père Duchene_, Bibliopolist Momoro, Clerk Vincent,
      General Ronsin; high Cordelier Patriots, redcapped Magistrates of
      Paris, Worshippers of Reason, Commanders of Revolutionary Army!
      Eight short days ago, their Cordelier Club was loud, and louder
      than ever, with Patriot denunciations. Hébert _Père Duchene_ had
      ‘held his tongue and his heart these two months, at sight of
      Moderates, Crypto-Aristocrats, Camilles, _Scélérats_ in the
      Convention itself: but could not do it any longer; would, if
      other remedy were not, invoke the Sacred right of Insurrection.’
      So spake Hébert in Cordelier Session; with vivats, till the roofs
      rang again.[735] Eight short days ago; and now already! They rub
      their eyes: it is no dream; they find themselves in the
      Luxembourg. Goose Gobel too; and they that burnt Churches!
      Chaumette himself, potent Procureur, _Agent National_ as they now
      call it, who could “recognise the Suspect by the very face of
      them,” he lingers but three days; on the third day he too is
      hurled in. Most chopfallen, blue, enters the National Agent this
      Limbo whither he has sent so many. Prisoners crowd round, jibing
      and jeering: ‘Sublime National Agent,’ says one, ‘in virtue of
      thy immortal Proclamation, lo there! I am suspect, thou art
      suspect, he is suspect, we are suspect, ye are suspect, they are
      suspect!’

      The meaning of these things? Meaning! It is a Plot; Plot of the
      most extensive ramifications; which, however, Barrère holds the
      threads of. Such Church-burning and scandalous masquerades of
      Atheism, fit to make the Revolution odious: where indeed could
      they originate but in the gold of Pitt? Pitt indubitably, as
      Preternatural Insight will teach one, did hire this Faction of
      _Enragés_, to play their fantastic tricks; to roar in their
      Cordeliers Club about Moderatism; to print their _Père Duchene;_
      worship skyblue Reason in red nightcap; rob all Altars,—and bring
      the spoil to _us!_

      Still more indubitable, visible to the mere bodily sight, is
      this: that the Cordeliers Club sits pale, with anger and terror;
      and has “veiled the Rights of Man,”—without effect. Likewise that
      the Jacobins are in considerable confusion; busy “purging
      themselves, “_s’épurant_,” as, in times of Plot and public
      Calamity, they have repeatedly had to do. Not even Camille
      Desmoulins but has given offence: nay there have risen murmurs
      against Danton himself; though he bellowed them down, and
      Robespierre finished the matter by “embracing him in the
      Tribune.”

      Whom shall the Republic and a jealous Mother Society trust? In
      these times of temptation, of Preternatural Insight! For there
      are Factions of the Stranger, “de _l”étranger_,” Factions of
      Moderates, of Enraged; all manner of Factions: we walk in a world
      of Plots; strings, universally spread, of deadly gins and
      falltraps, baited by the gold of Pitt! Clootz, Speaker of Mankind
      so-called, with his _Evidences of Mahometan Religion_, and babble
      of Universal Republic, him an incorruptible Robespierre has
      purged away. Baron Clootz, and Paine rebellious Needleman lie,
      these two months, in the Luxembourg; limbs of the Faction _de
      l’étranger_. Representative Phélippeaux is purged out: he came
      back from La Vendée with an ill report in his mouth against rogue
      Rossignol, and our method of warfare there. Recant it, O
      Phélippeaux, we entreat thee! Phélippeaux will not recant; and is
      purged out. Representative Fabre d’Eglantine, famed Nomenclator
      of Romme’s Calendar, is purged out; nay, is cast into the
      Luxembourg: accused of Legislative Swindling “in regard to monies
      of the India Company.” There with his Chabots, Bazires, guilty of
      the like, let Fabre wait his destiny. And Westermann friend of
      Danton, he who led the Marseillese on the Tenth of August, and
      fought well in La Vendée, but spoke not well of rogue Rossignol,
      is purged out. Lucky, if he too go not to the Luxembourg. And
      your Prolys, Guzmans, of the Faction of the Stranger, they have
      gone; Peyreyra, though he fled is gone, “taken in the disguise of
      a Tavern Cook.” I am suspect, thou art suspect, he is suspect!—

      The great heart of Danton is weary of it. Danton is gone to
      native Arcis, for a little breathing time of peace: Away, black
      Arachne-webs, thou world of Fury, Terror, and Suspicion; welcome,
      thou everlasting Mother, with thy spring greenness, thy kind
      household loves and memories; true art thou, were all else
      untrue! The great Titan walks silent, by the banks of the
      murmuring Aube, in young native haunts that knew him when a boy;
      wonders what the end of these things may be.

      But strangest of all, Camille Desmoulins is purged out. Couthon
      gave as a test in regard to Jacobin purgation the question, “What
      hast thou done to be hanged if Counter-Revolution should arrive?”
      Yet Camille, who could so well answer this question, is purged
      out! The truth is, Camille, early in December last, began
      publishing a new Journal, or Series of Pamphlets, entitled the
      _Vieux Cordelier_, Old Cordelier. Camille, not afraid at one time
      to “embrace Liberty on a heap of dead bodies,” begins to ask now,
      Whether among so many arresting and punishing Committees there
      ought not to be a “Committee of Mercy?” Saint-Just, he observes,
      is an extremely solemn young Republican, who “carries his head as
      if it were a _Saint-Sacrement;_ adorable Hostie, or divine
      Real-Presence! Sharply enough, this _old_ Cordelier, Danton and
      he were of the earliest primary Cordeliers,—shoots his glittering
      war-shafts into your _new_ Cordeliers, your Héberts, Momoros,
      with their brawling brutalities and despicabilities: say, as the
      Sun-god (for poor Camille is a Poet) shot into that Python
      Serpent sprung of mud.

      Whereat, as was natural, the Hébertist Python did hiss and writhe
      amazingly; and threaten “sacred right of Insurrection;”—and, as
      we saw, get cast into Prison. Nay, with all the old wit,
      dexterity, and light graceful poignancy, Camille, translating
      “out of _Tacitus_, from the Reign of Tiberius,” pricks into the
      _Law of the Suspect_ itself; making it odious! Twice, in the
      Decade, his wild Leaves issue; full of wit, nay of humour, of
      harmonious ingenuity and insight,—one of the strangest phenomenon
      of that dark time; and smite, in their wild-sparkling way, at
      various monstrosities, Saint-Sacrament heads, and Juggernaut
      idols, in a rather reckless manner. To the great joy of Josephine
      Beauharnais, and the other Five Thousand and odd Suspect, who
      fill the Twelve Houses of Arrest; on whom a ray of hope dawns!
      Robespierre, at first approbatory, knew not at last what to
      think; then thought, with his Jacobins, that Camille must be
      expelled. A man of true Revolutionary spirit, this Camille; but
      with the unwisest sallies; whom Aristocrats and Moderates have
      the art to corrupt! Jacobinism is in uttermost crisis and
      struggle: enmeshed wholly in plots, corruptibilities, neck-gins
      and baited falltraps of Pitt _Ennemi du Genre Humain_. Camille’s
      First Number begins with “O Pitt!”—his last is dated 15 Pluviose
      Year 2, 3d February 1794; and ends with these words of
      Montezuma’s, “_Les dieux ont soif_, The gods are athirst.”

      Be this as it may, the Hébertists lie in Prison only some nine
      days. On the 24th of March, therefore, the Revolution Tumbrils
      carry through that Life-tumult a new cargo: Hébert, Vincent,
      Momoro, Ronsin, Nineteen of them in all; with whom, curious
      enough, sits Clootz Speaker of Mankind. They have been massed
      swiftly into a lump, this miscellany of Nondescripts; and travel
      now their last road. No help. They too must “look through the
      little window;” they too “must sneeze into the sack,” _éternuer
      dans le sac;_ as they have done to others so is it done to them.
      _Sainte-Guillotine_, meseems, is worse than the old Saints of
      Superstition; a man-devouring Saint? Clootz, still with an air of
      polished sarcasm, endeavours to jest, to offer cheering
      “arguments of Materialism;” he requested to be executed last, “in
      order to establish certain principles,”—which Philosophy has not
      retained. General Ronsin too, he still looks forth with some air
      of defiance, eye of command: the rest are sunk in a stony
      paleness of despair. Momoro, poor Bibliopolist, no Agrarian Law
      yet realised,—they might as well have hanged thee at Evreux,
      twenty months ago, when Girondin Buzot hindered them. Hébert
      _Père Duchesne_ shall never in this world rise in sacred right of
      insurrection; he sits there low enough, head sunk on breast; Red
      Nightcaps shouting round him, in frightful parody of his
      Newspaper Articles, ‘Grand choler of the Père Duchesne!’ Thus
      perish they; the sack receives all their heads. Through some
      section of History, Nineteen spectre-chimeras shall flit,
      speaking and gibbering; till Oblivion swallow them.

      In the course of a week, the Revolutionary Army itself is
      disbanded; the General having become spectral. This Faction of
      Rabids, therefore, is also purged from the Republican soil; here
      also the baited falltraps of that Pitt have been wrenched up
      harmless; and anew there is joy over a Plot Discovered. The
      Revolution then is verily devouring its own children. All
      Anarchy, by the nature of it, is not only destructive but
      self-destructive.


      Chapter 3.6.II.
      Danton, No Weakness.

      Danton, meanwhile, has been pressingly sent for from Arcis: he
      must return instantly, cried Camille, cried Phélippeaux and
      Friends, who scented danger in the wind. Danger enough! A Danton,
      a Robespierre, chief-products of a victorious Revolution, are now
      arrived in immediate front of one another; must ascertain how
      they will live together, rule together. One conceives easily the
      deep mutual incompatibility that divided these two: with what
      terror of feminine hatred the poor seagreen Formula looked at the
      monstrous colossal Reality, and grew greener to behold him;—the
      Reality, again, struggling to think no ill of a chief-product of
      the Revolution; yet feeling at bottom that such chief-product was
      little other than a chief wind-bag, blown large by Popular air;
      not a man with the heart of a man, but a poor spasmodic
      incorruptible pedant, with a logic-formula instead of heart; of
      Jesuit or Methodist-Parson nature; full of sincere-cant,
      incorruptibility, of virulence, poltroonery; barren as the
      east-wind! Two such chief-products are too much for one
      Revolution.

      Friends, trembling at the results of a quarrel on their part,
      brought them to meet. ‘It is right,’ said Danton, swallowing much
      indignation, ‘to repress the Royalists: but we should not strike
      except where it is useful to the Republic; we should not confound
      the innocent and the guilty.’—‘And who told you,’ replied
      Robespierre with a poisonous look, ‘that one innocent person had
      perished?’—‘_Quoi_,’ said Danton, turning round to Friend Paris
      self-named Fabricius, Juryman in the Revolutionary Tribunal:
      ‘_Quoi_, not one innocent? What sayest thou of it,
      Fabricius!’[736]—Friends, Westermann, this Pâris and others urged
      him to shew himself, to ascend the Tribune and act. The man
      Danton was not prone to shew himself; to act, or uproar for his
      own safety. A man of careless, large, hoping nature; a large
      nature that could rest: he would sit whole hours, they say,
      hearing Camille talk, and liked nothing so well. Friends urged
      him to fly; his Wife urged him: ‘Whither fly?’ answered he: ‘If
      freed France cast me out, there are only dungeons for me
      elsewhere. One carries not his country with him at the sole of
      his shoe!’ The man Danton sat still. Not even the arrestment of
      Friend Herault, a member of _Salut_, yet arrested by _Salut_, can
      rouse Danton.—On the night of the 30th of March, Juryman Paris
      came rushing in; haste looking through his eyes: A clerk of the
      _Salut_ Committee had told him Danton’s warrant was made out, he
      is to be arrested this very night! Entreaties there are and
      trepidation, of poor Wife, of Paris and Friends: Danton sat
      silent for a while; then answered, ‘_Ils n’oseraient_, They dare
      not;’ and would take no measures. Murmuring ‘They dare not,’ he
      goes to sleep as usual.

      And yet, on the morrow morning, strange rumour spreads over Paris
      City: Danton, Camille, Phélippeaux, Lacroix have been arrested
      overnight! It is verily so: the corridors of the Luxembourg were
      all crowded, Prisoners crowding forth to see this giant of the
      Revolution among them. ‘Messieurs,’ said Danton politely, ‘I
      hoped soon to have got you all out of this: but here I am myself;
      and one sees not where it will end.’—Rumour may spread over
      Paris: the Convention clusters itself into groups; wide-eyed,
      whispering, ‘Danton arrested!’ Who then is safe? Legendre,
      mounting the Tribune, utters, at his own peril, a feeble word for
      him; moving that he be heard at that Bar before indictment; but
      Robespierre frowns him down: ‘Did you hear Chabot, or Bazire?
      Would you have two weights and measures?’ Legendre cowers low;
      Danton, like the others, must take his doom.

      Danton’s Prison-thoughts were curious to have; but are not given
      in any quantity: indeed few such remarkable men have been left so
      obscure to us as this Titan of the Revolution. He was heard to
      ejaculate: ‘This time twelvemonth, I was moving the creation of
      that same Revolutionary Tribunal. I crave pardon for it of God
      and man. They are all Brothers Cain: Brissot would have had me
      guillotined as Robespierre now will. I leave the whole business
      in a frightful welter (_gâchis épouvantable_): not one of them
      understands anything of government. Robespierre will follow me; I
      drag down Robespierre. O, it were better to be a poor fisherman
      than to meddle with governing of men.’—Camille’s young beautiful
      Wife, who had made him rich not in money alone, hovers round the
      Luxembourg, like a disembodied spirit, day and night. Camille’s
      stolen letters to her still exist; stained with the mark of his
      tears.[737] ‘I carry my head like a Saint-Sacrament?’ so
      Saint-Just was heard to mutter: ‘Perhaps he will carry his like a
      Saint-Dennis.’

      Unhappy Danton, thou still unhappier light Camille, once light
      _Procureur de la Lanterne_, ye also have arrived, then, at the
      Bourne of Creation, where, like Ulysses Polytlas at the limit and
      utmost Gades of his voyage, gazing into that dim Waste beyond
      Creation, a man does see _the Shade of his Mother_, pale,
      ineffectual;—and days when his Mother nursed and wrapped him are
      all-too sternly contrasted with this day! Danton, Camille,
      Herault, Westermann, and the others, very strangely massed up
      with Bazires, Swindler Chabots, Fabre d’Eglantines, Banker Freys,
      a most motley Batch, “_Fournée_” as such things will be called,
      stand ranked at the Bar of Tinville. It is the 2d of April 1794.
      Danton has had but three days to lie in Prison; for the time
      presses.

      What is your name? place of abode? and the like, Fouquier asks;
      according to formality. ‘My name is Danton,’ answers he; ‘a name
      tolerably known in the Revolution: my abode will soon be
      Annihilation (_dans le Néant_); but I shall live in the Pantheon
      of History.’ A man will endeavour to say something forcible, be
      it by nature or not! Herault mentions epigrammatically that he
      ‘sat in this Hall, and was detested of Parlementeers.’ Camille
      makes answer, ‘My age is that of the _bon Sansculotte Jésus;_ an
      age fatal to Revolutionists.’ O Camille, Camille! And yet in that
      Divine Transaction, let us say, there did lie, among other
      things, the fatallest Reproof ever uttered here below to Worldly
      Right-honourableness; “the highest Fact,” so devout Novalis calls
      it, “in the Rights of Man.” Camille’s real age, it would seem, is
      thirty-four. Danton is one year older.

      Some five months ago, the Trial of the Twenty-two Girondins was
      the greatest that Fouquier had then done. But here is a still
      greater to do; a thing which tasks the whole faculty of Fouquier;
      which makes the very heart of him waver. For it is the voice of
      Danton that reverberates now from these domes; in passionate
      words, piercing with their wild sincerity, winged with wrath.
      Your best Witnesses he shivers into ruin at one stroke. He
      demands that the Committee-men themselves come as Witnesses, as
      Accusers; he ‘will cover them with ignominy.’ He raises his huge
      stature, he shakes his huge black head, fire flashes from the
      eyes of him,—piercing to all Republican hearts: so that the very
      Galleries, though we filled them by ticket, murmur sympathy; and
      are like to burst down, and raise the People, and deliver him! He
      complains loudly that he is classed with Chabots, with swindling
      Stockjobbers; that his Indictment is a list of platitudes and
      horrors. ‘Danton hidden on the Tenth of August?’ reverberates he,
      with the roar of a lion in the toils: ‘Where are the men that had
      to press Danton to shew himself, that day? Where are these
      high-gifted souls of whom he borrowed energy? Let them appear,
      these Accusers of mine: I have all the clearness of my
      self-possession when I demand them. I will unmask the three
      shallow scoundrels,’ _les trois plats coquins_, Saint-Just,
      Couthon, Lebas, ‘who fawn on Robespierre, and lead him towards
      his destruction. Let them produce themselves here; I will plunge
      them into Nothingness, out of which they ought never to have
      risen.’ The agitated President agitates his bell; enjoins
      calmness, in a vehement manner: ‘What is it to thee how I defend
      myself?’ cries the other: ‘the right of _dooming_ me is thine
      always. The voice of a man speaking for his honour and his life
      may well drown the jingling of thy bell!’ Thus Danton, higher and
      higher; till the lion voice of him “dies away in his throat:”
      speech will not utter what is in that man. The Galleries murmur
      ominously; the first day’s Session is over.

      O Tinville, President Herman, what will ye do? They have two days
      more of it, by strictest Revolutionary Law. The Galleries already
      murmur. If this Danton were to burst your mesh-work!—Very curious
      indeed to consider. It turns on a hair: and what a Hoitytoity
      were _there_, Justice and Culprit changing places; and the whole
      History of France running changed! For in France there is this
      Danton only that could still try to govern France. He only, the
      wild amorphous Titan;—and perhaps that other olive-complexioned
      individual, the Artillery Officer at Toulon, whom we left pushing
      his fortune in the South?

      On the evening of the second day, matters looking not better but
      worse and worse, Fouquier and Herman, distraction in their
      aspect, rush over to _Salut Public_. What is to be done? _Salut
      Public_ rapidly concocts a new Decree; whereby if men “insult
      Justice,” they may be “thrown out of the Debates.” For indeed,
      withal, is there not “a Plot in the Luxembourg Prison?”
      _Ci-devant_ General Dillon, and others of the Suspect, plotting
      with Camille’s Wife to distribute _assignats;_ to force the
      Prisons, overset the Republic? Citizen Laflotte, himself Suspect
      but desiring enfranchisement, has reported said Plot for us:—a
      report that may bear fruit! Enough, on the morrow morning, an
      obedient Convention passes this Decree. _Salut_ rushes off with
      it to the aid of Tinville, reduced now almost to extremities. And
      so, _Hors des Débats_, Out of the Debates, ye insolents!
      Policemen do your duty! In such manner, with a deadlift effort,
      _Salut_, Tinville Herman, Leroi _Dix-Août_, and all stanch
      jurymen setting heart and shoulder to it, the Jury becomes
      “sufficiently instructed;” Sentence is passed, is sent by an
      Official, and torn and trampled on: _Death this day_. It is the
      5th of April, 1794. Camille’s poor Wife may cease hovering about
      this Prison. Nay let her kiss her poor children; and prepare to
      enter it, and to follow!—

      Danton carried a high look in the Death-cart. Not so Camille: it
      is but one week, and all is so topsy-turvied; angel Wife left
      weeping; love, riches, Revolutionary fame, left all at the
      Prison-gate; carnivorous Rabble now howling round. Palpable, and
      yet incredible; like a madman’s dream! Camille struggles and
      writhes; his shoulders shuffle the loose coat off them, which
      hangs knotted, the hands tied: ‘Calm my friend,’ said Danton;
      ‘heed not that vile canaille (_laissez là cette vile canaille_).’
      At the foot of the Scaffold, Danton was heard to ejaculate: ‘O my
      Wife, my well-beloved, I shall never see thee more then!’—but,
      interrupting himself: ‘Danton, no weakness!’ He said to
      Hérault-Séchelles stepping forward to embrace him: ‘Our heads
      will meet _there_,’ in the Headsman’s sack. His last words were
      to Samson the Headsman himself: ‘Thou wilt shew my head to the
      people; it is worth shewing.’

      So passes, like a gigantic mass, of valour, ostentation, fury,
      affection and wild revolutionary manhood, this Danton, to his
      unknown home. He was of Arcis-sur-Aube; born of “good
      farmer-people” there. He had many sins; but one worst sin he had
      not, that of Cant. No hollow Formalist, deceptive and
      self-deceptive, _ghastly_ to the natural sense, was this; but a
      very Man: with all his dross he was a Man; fiery-real, from the
      great fire-bosom of Nature herself. He saved France from
      Brunswick; he walked straight his own wild road, whither it led
      him. He may live for some generations in the memory of men.


      Chapter 3.6.III.
      The Tumbrils.

      Next week, it is still but the 10th of April, there comes a new
      Nineteen; Chaumette, Gobel, Hébert’s Widow, the Widow of Camille:
      these also roll their fated journey; black Death devours them.
      Mean Hébert’s Widow was weeping, Camille’s Widow tried to speak
      comfort to her. O ye kind Heavens, azure, beautiful, eternal
      behind your tempests and Time-clouds, is there not pity for all!
      Gobel, it seems, was repentant; he begged absolution of a Priest;
      did as a Gobel best could. For Anaxagoras Chaumette, the sleek
      head now stript of its _bonnet rouge_, what hope is there? Unless
      Death _were_ “an eternal sleep?” Wretched Anaxagoras, God shall
      judge thee, not I.

      Hébert, therefore, is gone, and the Hébertists; they that robbed
      Churches, and adored blue Reason in red nightcap. Great Danton,
      and the Dantonists; they also are gone. Down to the catacombs;
      they are become silent men! Let no Paris Municipality, no Sect or
      Party of this hue or that, resist the will of Robespierre and
      _Salut_. Mayor Pache, not prompt enough in denouncing these Pitts
      Plots, may congratulate about them now. Never so heartily; it
      skills not! His course likewise is to the Luxembourg. We appoint
      one Fleuriot-Lescot Interim-Mayor in his stead: an “architect
      from Belgium,” they say, this Fleuriot; he is a man one can
      depend on. Our new Agent-National is Payan, lately Juryman; whose
      cynosure also is Robespierre.

      Thus then, we perceive, this confusedly electric Erebus-cloud of
      Revolutionary Government has altered its shape somewhat. Two
      masses, or wings, belonging to it; an over-electric mass of
      Cordelier Rabids, and an under-electric of Dantonist Moderates
      and Clemency-men,—these two masses, shooting bolts at one
      another, so to speak, have annihilated one another. For the
      Erebus-cloud, as we often remark, is of suicidal nature; and, in
      jagged irregularity, darts its lightning withal into itself. But
      now these two discrepant masses being mutually annihilated, it is
      as if the Erebus-cloud had got to internal composure; and did
      only pour its hellfire lightning on the World that lay under it.
      In plain words, Terror of the Guillotine was never terrible till
      now. Systole, diastole, swift and ever swifter goes the Axe of
      Samson. Indictments cease by degrees to have so much as
      plausibility: Fouquier chooses from the Twelve houses of Arrest
      what he calls Batches, “_Fournées_,” a score or more at a time;
      his Jurymen are charged to make _feu de file_, fire-filing till
      the ground be _clear_. Citizen Laflotte’s report of Plot in the
      Luxembourg is verily bearing fruit! If no speakable charge exist
      against a man, or Batch of men, Fouquier has always this: a Plot
      in the Prison. Swift and ever swifter goes Samson; up, finally,
      to three score and more at a Batch! It is the highday of Death:
      none but the Dead return not.

      O dusky d’Espréménil, what a day is this, the 22d of April, thy
      last day! The Palais Hall here is the same stone Hall, where
      thou, five years ago, stoodest perorating, amid endless pathos of
      rebellious Parlement, in the grey of the morning; bound to march
      with d’Agoust to the Isles of Hieres. The stones are the same
      stones: but the rest, Men, Rebellion, Pathos, Peroration, see! it
      has all fled, like a gibbering troop of ghosts, like the
      phantasms of a dying brain! With d’Espréménil, in the same line
      of Tumbrils, goes the mournfullest medley. Chapelier goes,
      _ci-devant_ popular President of the Constituent; whom the Menads
      and Maillard met in his carriage, on the Versailles Road. Thouret
      likewise, _ci-devant_ President, father of Constitutional
      Law-acts; he whom we heard saying, long since, with a loud voice,
      ‘The Constituent Assembly has fulfilled its mission!’ And the
      noble old Malesherbes, who defended Louis and could not speak,
      like a grey old rock dissolving into sudden water: he journeys
      here now, with his kindred, daughters, sons and grandsons, his
      Lamoignons, Châteaubriands; silent, towards Death.—One young
      Châteaubriand alone is wandering amid the Natchez, by the roar of
      Niagara Falls, the moan of endless forests: Welcome thou great
      Nature, savage, but not false, not unkind, unmotherly; no Formula
      thou, or rapid jangle of Hypothesis, Parliamentary Eloquence,
      Constitution-building and the Guillotine; speak thou to me, O
      Mother, and sing my sick heart thy mystic everlasting
      lullaby-song, and let all the rest be far!—

      Another row of Tumbrils we must notice: that which holds
      Elizabeth, the Sister of Louis. Her Trial was like the rest; for
      Plots, for Plots. She was among the kindliest, most innocent of
      women. There sat with her, amid four-and-twenty others, a once
      timorous Marchioness de Crussol; courageous now; expressing
      towards her the liveliest loyalty. At the foot of the Scaffold,
      Elizabeth with tears in her eyes, thanked this Marchioness; said
      she was grieved she could not reward her. ‘Ah, Madame, would your
      Royal Highness deign to embrace me, my wishes were
      complete!’—‘Right willingly, Marquise de Crussol, and with my
      whole heart.’[738] Thus they: at the foot of the Scaffold. The
      Royal Family is now reduced to two: a girl and a little boy. The
      boy, once named Dauphin, was taken from his Mother while she yet
      lived; and given to one Simon, by trade a Cordwainer, on service
      then about the Temple-Prison, to bring him up in principles of
      Sansculottism. Simon taught him to drink, to swear, to sing the
      _carmagnole_. Simon is now gone to the Municipality: and the poor
      boy, hidden in a tower of the Temple, from which in his fright
      and bewilderment and early decrepitude he wishes not to stir out,
      lies perishing, “his shirt not changed for six months;” amid
      squalor and darkness, lamentably,[739]—so as none but poor
      Factory Children and the like are wont to perish, and _not_ be
      lamented!

      The Spring sends its green leaves and bright weather, bright May
      brighter than ever: Death pauses not. Lavoisier famed Chemist,
      shall die and not live: Chemist Lavoisier was Farmer-General
      Lavoisier too, and now “all the Farmers-General are arrested;”
      all, and shall give an account of their monies and incomings; and
      die for “putting water in the tobacco” they sold.[740] Lavoisier
      begged a fortnight more of life, to finish some experiments: but
      ‘the Republic does not need such;’ the axe must do its work.
      Cynic Chamfort, reading these Inscriptions of _Brotherhood or
      Death_, says ‘it is a Brotherhood of Cain:’ arrested, then
      liberated; then about to be arrested again, this Chamfort cuts
      and slashes himself with frantic uncertain hand; gains, not
      without difficulty, the refuge of death. Condorcet has lurked
      deep, these many months; Argus-eyes watching and searching for
      him. His concealment is become dangerous to others and himself;
      he has to fly again, to skulk, round Paris, in thickets and
      stone-quarries. And so at the Village of Clamars, one bleared May
      morning, there enters a Figure, ragged, rough-bearded,
      hunger-stricken; asks breakfast in the tavern there. Suspect, by
      the look of him! ‘Servant out of place, sayest thou?’
      Committee-President of Forty-Sous finds a Latin Horace on him:
      ‘Art thou not one of those _Ci-devants_ that were wont to keep
      servants? _Suspect!_’ He is haled forthwith, breakfast
      unfinished, towards Bourg-la-Reine, on foot: he faints with
      exhaustion; is set on a peasant’s horse; is flung into his damp
      prison-cell: on the morrow, recollecting him, you enter;
      Condorcet lies dead on the floor. They die fast, and disappear:
      the Notabilities of France disappear, one after one, like lights
      in a Theatre, which you are snuffing out.

      Under which circumstances, is it not singular, and almost
      touching, to see Paris City drawn out, in the meek May nights, in
      civic ceremony, which they call “_Souper Fraternel_,” Brotherly
      Supper? Spontaneous, or partially spontaneous, in the twelfth,
      thirteenth, fourteenth nights of this May month, it is seen.
      Along the Rue Saint-Honoré, and main Streets and Spaces, each
      Citoyen brings forth what of supper the stingy _Maximum_ has
      yielded him, to the open air; joins it to his neighbour’s supper;
      and with common table, cheerful light burning frequent, and what
      due modicum of cut-glasses and other garnish and relish is
      convenient, they eat frugally together, under the kind
      stars.[741] See it O Night! With cheerfully pledged wine-cup,
      hobnobbing to the Reign of Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood, with
      their wives in best ribands, with their little ones romping
      round, the Citoyens, in frugal Love-feast, sit there. Night in
      her wide empire sees nothing similar. O my brothers, why is the
      reign of Brotherhood _not_ come! It is come, it shall come, say
      the Citoyens frugally hobnobbing.—Ah me! these everlasting stars,
      do they not look down “like glistening eyes, bright with immortal
      pity, over the lot of man!”—

      One lamentable thing, however, is, that individuals will attempt
      assassination—of Representatives of the People. Representative
      Collot, Member even of _Salut_, returning home, “about one in the
      morning,” probably touched with liquor, as he is apt to be, meets
      on the stairs, the cry ‘_Scélérat!_’ and also the snap of a
      pistol: which latter flashes in the pan; disclosing to him,
      momentarily, a pair of truculent saucer-eyes, swart grim-clenched
      countenance; recognisable as that of our little fellow-lodger,
      Citoyen Amiral, formerly “a clerk in the Lotteries!; Collot
      shouts _Murder_, with lungs fit to awaken all the _Rue Favart;_
      Amiral snaps a second time; a second time flashes in the pan;
      then darts up into his apartment; and, after there firing, still
      with inadequate effect, one musket at himself and another at his
      captor, is clutched and locked in Prison.[742] An indignant
      little man this Amiral, of Southern temper and complexion, of
      “considerable muscular force.” He denies not that he meant to
      ‘purge France of a tyrant;’ nay avows that he had an eye to the
      Incorruptible himself, but took Collot as more convenient!

      Rumour enough hereupon; heaven-high congratulation of Collot,
      fraternal embracing, at the Jacobins, and elsewhere. And yet, it
      would seem the assassin-mood proves catching. Two days more, it
      is still but the 23d of May, and towards nine in the evening,
      Cecile Renault, Paper-dealer’s daughter, a young woman of soft
      blooming look, presents herself at the Cabinet-maker’s in the Rue
      Saint-Honoré; desires to see Robespierre. Robespierre cannot be
      seen: she grumbles irreverently. They lay hold of her. She has
      left a basket in a shop hard by: in the basket are female change
      of raiment and two knives! Poor Cecile, examined by Committee,
      declares she ‘wanted to see what a tyrant was like:’ the change
      of raiment was ‘for my own use in the place I am surely going
      to.’—‘What place?’—‘Prison; and then the Guillotine,’ answered
      she.—Such things come of Charlotte Corday; in a people prone to
      imitation, and monomania! Swart choleric men try Charlotte’s
      feat, and their pistols miss fire; soft blooming young women try
      it, and, only half-resolute, leave their knives in a shop.

      O Pitt, and ye Faction of the Stranger, shall the Republic never
      have rest; but be torn continually by baited springs, by wires of
      explosive spring-guns? Swart Amiral, fair young Cecile, and all
      that knew them, and many that did not know them, lie locked,
      waiting the scrutiny of Tinville.


      Chapter 3.6.IV.
      Mumbo-Jumbo.

      But on the day they call _Décadi_, New-Sabbath, 20 _Prairial_,
      8th June by old style, what thing is this going forward, in the
      Jardin National, whilom Tuileries Garden?

      All the world is there, in holydays clothes:[743] foul linen went
      out with the Hébertists; nay Robespierre, for one, would never
      once countenance that; but went always elegant and frizzled, not
      without vanity even,—and had his room hung round with seagreen
      Portraits and Busts. In holyday clothes, we say, are the
      innumerable Citoyens and Citoyennes: the weather is of the
      brightest; cheerful expectation lights all countenances. Juryman
      Vilate gives breakfast to many a Deputy, in his official
      Apartment, in the Pavillon _ci-devant_ of Flora; rejoices in the
      bright-looking multitudes, in the brightness of leafy June, in
      the auspicious _Décadi_, or New-Sabbath. This day, if it please
      Heaven, we are to have, on improved Anti-Chaumette principles: a
      New Religion.

      Catholicism being burned out, and Reason-worship guillotined, was
      there not need of one? Incorruptible Robespierre, not unlike the
      Ancients, as Legislator of a free people will now also be Priest
      and Prophet. He has donned his sky-blue coat, made for the
      occasion; white silk waistcoat broidered with silver, black silk
      breeches, white stockings, shoe-buckles of gold. He is President
      of the Convention; he has made the Convention _decree_, so they
      name it, _décréter_ the “Existence of the Supreme Being,” and
      likewise “_ce principe consolateur_ of the Immortality of the
      Soul.” These consolatory principles, the basis of rational
      Republican Religion, are getting decreed; and here, on this
      blessed _Décadi_, by help of Heaven and Painter David, is to be
      our first act of worship.

      See, accordingly, how after Decree passed, and what has been
      called “the scraggiest Prophetic Discourse ever uttered by
      man,”—Mahomet Robespierre, in sky-blue coat and black breeches,
      frizzled and powdered to perfection, bearing in his hand a
      bouquet of flowers and wheat-ears, issues proudly from the
      Convention Hall; Convention following him, yet, as is remarked,
      with an interval. Amphitheatre has been raised, or at least
      _Monticule_ or Elevation; hideous Statues of Atheism, Anarchy and
      such like, thanks to Heaven and Painter David, strike abhorrence
      into the heart. Unluckily however, our Monticule is too small. On
      the top of it not half of us can stand; wherefore there arises
      indecent shoving, nay treasonous irreverent growling. Peace, thou
      Bourdon de l’Oise; peace, or it may be worse for thee!

      The seagreen Pontiff takes a torch, Painter David handing it;
      mouths some other froth-rant of vocables, which happily one
      cannot hear; strides resolutely forward, in sight of expectant
      France; sets his torch to Atheism and Company, which are but made
      of pasteboard steeped in turpentine. They burn up rapidly; and,
      from within, there rises “by machinery” an incombustible Statue
      of Wisdom, which, by ill hap, gets besmoked a little; but does
      stand there visible in as serene attitude as it can.

      And then? Why, then, there is other Processioning, scraggy
      Discoursing, and—this _is_ our Feast of the _Être Suprême;_ our
      new Religion, better or worse, is come!—Look at it one moment, O
      Reader, not two. The Shabbiest page of Human Annals: or is there,
      that thou wottest of, one shabbier? Mumbo-Jumbo of the African
      woods to me seems venerable beside this new Deity of Robespierre;
      for this is a _conscious_ Mumbo-Jumbo, and _knows_ that he is
      machinery. O seagreen Prophet, unhappiest of windbags blown nigh
      to bursting, what distracted Chimera among realities are thou
      growing to! This then, this common pitch-link for artificial
      fireworks of turpentine and pasteboard; _this_ is the miraculous
      Aaron’s Rod thou wilt stretch over a hag-ridden hell-ridden
      France, and bid her plagues cease? Vanish, thou and it!—‘_Avec
      ton Être Suprême_,’ said Billaud, ‘_tu commences à m’embêter:_
      With thy _Être Suprême_ thou beginnest to be a bore to me.’[744]

      Catherine Théot, on the other hand, “an ancient serving-maid
      seventy-nine years of age,” inured to Prophecy and the Bastille
      from of old, sits, in an upper room in the Rue-de-Contrescarpe,
      poring over the Book of Revelations, with an eye to Robespierre;
      finds that this astonishing thrice-potent Maximilien really is
      the Man spoken of by Prophets, who is to make the Earth young
      again. With her sit devout old Marchionesses, _ci-devant_
      honourable women; among whom Old-Constituent Dom Gerle, with his
      addle head, cannot be wanting. They sit there, in the
      Rue-de-Contrescarpe; in mysterious adoration: Mumbo is Mumbo, and
      Robespierre is his Prophet. A conspicuous man this Robespierre.
      He has his volunteer Bodyguard of _Tappe-durs_, let us say
      _Strike-sharps_, fierce Patriots with feruled sticks; and
      Jacobins kissing the hem of his garment. He enjoys the admiration
      of many, the worship of some; and is well worth the wonder of one
      and all.

      The grand question and hope, however, is: Will not this Feast of
      the Tuileries Mumbo-Jumbo be a sign perhaps that the Guillotine
      is to abate? Far enough from that! Precisely on the second day
      after it, Couthon, one of the “three shallow scoundrels,” gets
      himself lifted into the Tribune; produces a bundle of papers.
      Couthon proposes that, as Plots still abound, the _Law of the
      Suspect_ shall have extension, and Arrestment new vigour and
      facility. Further that, as in such case business is like to be
      heavy, our Revolutionary Tribunal too shall have extension; be
      divided, say, into Four Tribunals, each with its President, each
      with its Fouquier or Substitute of Fouquier, all labouring at
      once, and any remnant of shackle or dilatory formality be struck
      off: in this way it may perhaps still overtake the work. Such is
      Couthon’s _Decree of the Twenty-second Prairial_, famed in those
      times. At hearing of which Decree the very Mountain gasped,
      awestruck; and one Ruamps ventured to say that if it passed
      without adjournment and discussion, he, as one Representative,
      ‘would blow his brains out.’ Vain saying! The Incorruptible knit
      his brows; spoke a prophetic fateful word or two: the _Law of
      Prairial_ is Law; Ruamps glad to leave his rash brains where they
      are. Death, then, and always Death! Even so. Fouquier is
      enlarging his borders; making room for Batches of a Hundred and
      fifty at once;—getting a Guillotine set up, of improved velocity,
      and to work under cover, in the apartment close by. So that
      _Salut_ itself has to intervene, and forbid him: ‘Wilt thou
      _demoralise_ the Guillotine,’ asks Collot, reproachfully,
      ‘_démoraliser le supplice!_’

      There is indeed danger of that; were not the Republican faith
      great, it were already done. See, for example, on the 17th of
      June, what a _Batch_, Fifty-four at once! Swart Amiral is here,
      he of the pistol that missed fire; young Cecile Renault, with her
      father, family, entire kith and kin; the widow of d’Espréménil;
      old M. de Sombreuil of the Invalides, with his Son,—poor old
      Sombreuil, seventy-three years old, his Daughter saved him in
      September, and it was but for _this_. Faction of the Stranger,
      fifty-four of them! In red shirts and smocks, as Assassins and
      Faction of the Stranger, they flit along there; red baleful
      Phantasmagory, towards the land of Phantoms.

      Meanwhile will not the people of the Place de la Révolution, the
      inhabitants along the Rue Saint-Honoré, as these continual
      Tumbrils pass, begin to look gloomy? Republicans too have bowels.
      The Guillotine is shifted, then again shifted; finally set up at
      the remote extremity of the South-East:[745] Suburbs
      Saint-Antoine and Saint-Marceau it is to be hoped, if they have
      bowels, have very tough ones.


      Chapter 3.6.V.
      The Prisons.

      It is time now, however, to cast a glance into the Prisons. When
      Desmoulins moved for his Committee of Mercy, these Twelve Houses
      of Arrest held five thousand persons. Continually arriving since
      then, there have now accumulated twelve thousand. They are
      Ci-devants, Royalists; in far greater part, they are Republicans,
      of various Girondin, Fayettish, Un-Jacobin colour. Perhaps no
      human Habitation or Prison ever equalled in squalor, in noisome
      horror, these Twelve Houses of Arrest. There exist records of
      personal experience in them _Mémoires sur les Prisons;_ one of
      the strangest Chapters in the Biography of Man.

      Very singular to look into it: how a kind of order rises up in
      all conditions of human existence; and wherever two or three are
      gathered together, there are formed modes of existing together,
      habitudes, observances, nay gracefulnesses, joys! Citoyen Coitant
      will explain fully how our lean dinner, of herbs and carrion, was
      consumed not without politeness and _place-aux-dames:_ how
      Seigneur and Shoeblack, Duchess and Doll-Tearsheet, flung
      pellmell into a heap, ranked themselves according to method: at
      what hour “the Citoyennes took to their needlework;” and we,
      yielding the chairs to them, endeavoured to talk gallantly in a
      standing posture, or even to sing and harp more or less.
      Jealousies, enmities are not wanting; nor flirtations, of an
      effective character.

      Alas, by degrees, even needlework must cease: Plot in the Prison
      rises, by Citoyen Laflotte and Preternatural Suspicion.
      Suspicious Municipality snatches from us all implements; all
      money and possession, of means or metal, is ruthlessly searched
      for, in pocket, in pillow and paillasse, and snatched away;
      red-capped Commissaries entering every cell! Indignation,
      temporary desperation, at robbery of its very thimble, fills the
      gentle heart. Old Nuns shriek shrill discord; demand to be killed
      forthwith. No help from shrieking! Better was that of the two
      shifty male Citizens, who, eager to preserve an implement or two,
      were it but a pipe-picker, or needle to darn hose with,
      determined to defend themselves: by tobacco. Swift then, as your
      fell Red Caps are heard in the Corridor rummaging and slamming,
      the two Citoyens light their pipes and begin smoking. Thick
      darkness envelops them. The Red Nightcaps, opening the cell,
      breathe but one mouthful; burst forth into chorus of barking and
      coughing. ‘_Quoi, Messieurs_,’ cry the two Citoyens, ‘You don’t
      smoke? Is the pipe disagreeable! _Est-ce que vous ne fumez pas?_’
      But the Red Nightcaps have fled, with slight search: ‘_Vous
      n’aimez pas la pipe?_’ cry the Citoyens, as their door slams-to
      again.[746] My poor brother Citoyens, O surely, in a reign of
      Brotherhood, you are not the two I would guillotine!

      Rigour grows, stiffens into horrid tyranny; Plot in the Prison
      getting ever riper. This Plot in the Prison, as we said, is now
      the stereotype formula of Tinville: against whomsoever he knows
      no crime, this is a ready-made crime. His Judgment-bar has become
      unspeakable; a recognised mockery; known only as the wicket one
      passes through, towards Death. His Indictments are drawn out in
      blank; you insert the Names after. He has his _moutons_,
      detestable traitor jackalls, who report and bear witness; that
      they themselves may be allowed to live,—for a time. His
      _Fournées_, says the reproachful Collot, “shall in no case exceed
      three-score;” that is his _maximum_. Nightly come his Tumbrils to
      the Luxembourg, with the fatal Roll-call; list of the _Fournée_
      of tomorrow. Men rush towards the Grate; listen, if their name be
      in it? One deep-drawn breath, when the name is not in: we live
      still one day! And yet some score or scores of names were in.
      Quick these; they clasp their loved ones to their heart, one last
      time; with brief adieu, wet-eyed or dry-eyed, they mount, and are
      away. This night to the Conciergerie; through the Palais misnamed
      _of Justice_, to the Guillotine tomorrow.

      Recklessness, defiant levity, the Stoicism if not of strength yet
      of weakness, has possessed all hearts. Weak women and
      _Ci-devants_, their locks not yet made into blond perukes, their
      skins not yet tanned into breeches, are accustomed to “act the
      Guillotine” by way of pastime. In fantastic mummery, with
      towel-turbans, blanket-ermine, a mock Sanhedrim of Judges sits, a
      mock Tinville pleads; a culprit is doomed, is guillotined by the
      oversetting of two chairs. Sometimes we carry it farther:
      Tinville himself, in his turn, is doomed, and not to the
      Guillotine alone. With blackened face, hirsute, horned, a shaggy
      Satan snatches him not unshrieking; shews him, with outstretched
      arm and voice, the fire that is not quenched, the worm that dies
      not; the monotony of Hell-pain, and the _What hour?_ answered by,
      _It is Eternity!_[747]

      And still the Prisons fill fuller, and still the Guillotine goes
      faster. On all high roads march flights of Prisoners, wending
      towards Paris. Not _Ci-devants_ now; they, the noisy of them, are
      mown down; it is Republicans now. Chained two and two they march;
      in exasperated moments, singing their _Marseillaise_. A hundred
      and thirty-two men of Nantes for instance, march towards Paris,
      in these same days: Republicans, or say even Jacobins to the
      marrow of the bone; but Jacobins who had not approved
      Noyading.[748] _Vive la République_ rises from them in all
      streets of towns: they rest by night, in unutterable noisome
      dens, crowded to choking; one or two dead on the morrow. They are
      wayworn, weary of heart; can only shout: _Live the Republic;_ we,
      as under horrid enchantment, dying in this way for it!

      Some Four Hundred Priests, of whom also there is record, ride at
      anchor, “in the roads of the Isle of Aix,” long months; looking
      out on misery, vacuity, waste Sands of Oleron and the
      ever-moaning brine. Ragged, sordid, hungry; wasted to shadows:
      eating their unclean ration on deck, circularly, in parties of a
      dozen, with finger and thumb; beating their scandalous clothes
      between two stones; choked in horrible miasmata, closed under
      hatches, seventy of them in a berth, through night; so that the
      “aged Priest is found lying dead in the morning, in the attitude
      of prayer!”[749]—How long, O Lord!

      Not forever; no. All Anarchy, all Evil, Injustice, is, by the
      nature of it, _dragon’s-teeth;_ suicidal, and cannot endure.


      Chapter 3.6.VI.
      To Finish the Terror.

      It is very remarkable, indeed, that since the _Être-Suprême_
      Feast, and the sublime continued harangues on it, which Billaud
      feared would become a bore to him, Robespierre has gone little to
      Committee; but held himself apart, as if in a kind of pet. Nay
      they have made a Report on that old Catherine Théot, and her
      Regenerative Man spoken of by the Prophets; not in the best
      spirit. This Théot mystery they affect to regard as a Plot; but
      have evidently introduced a vein of satire, of irreverent banter,
      not against the Spinster alone, but obliquely against her
      Regenerative Man! Barrère’s light pen was perhaps at the bottom
      of it: read through the solemn snuffling organs of old Vadier of
      the _Sûreté Générale_, the Théot Report had its effect; wrinkling
      the general Republican visage into an iron grin. Ought these
      things to be?

      We note farther that among the Prisoners in the Twelve Houses of
      Arrest, there is one whom we have seen before. Senhora Fontenai,
      _born_ Cabarus, the fair Proserpine whom Representative Tallien
      Pluto-like did gather at Bourdeaux, not without effect on
      himself! Tallien is home, by recall, long since, from Bourdeaux;
      and in the most alarming position. Vain that he sounded, louder
      even than ever, the note of Jacobinism, to hide past
      shortcomings: the Jacobins purged him out; two times has
      Robespierre growled at him words of omen from the Convention
      Tribune. And now his fair Cabarus, hit by denunciation, lies
      Arrested, Suspect, in spite of all he could do!—Shut in horrid
      pinfold of death, the Senhora smuggles out to her red-gloomy
      Tallien the most pressing entreaties and conjurings: Save me;
      save thyself. Seest thou not that thy own head is doomed; thou
      with a too fiery audacity; a Dantonist withal; against whom lie
      grudges? Are ye not all doomed, as in the Polyphemus Cavern; the
      fawningest slave of you will be but eaten last!—Tallien feels
      with a shudder that it is true. Tallien has had words of omen,
      Bourdon has had words, Fréron is hated and Barras: each man
      “feels his head if it yet stick on his shoulders.”

      Meanwhile Robespierre, we still observe, goes little to
      Convention, not at all to Committee; speaks nothing except to his
      Jacobin House of Lords, amid his bodyguard of _Tappe-durs_. These
      “forty-days,” for we are now far in July, he has not shewed face
      in Committee; could only work there by his three shallow
      scoundrels, and the terror there was of him. The Incorruptible
      himself sits apart; or is seen stalking in solitary places in the
      fields, with an intensely meditative air; some say, “with eyes
      red-spotted,”[750] fruit of extreme bile: the lamentablest
      seagreen Chimera that walks the Earth that July! O hapless
      Chimera; for thou too hadst a life, and a heart of flesh,—what is
      this the stern gods, seeming to smile all the way, have led and
      let thee to! Art not thou he who, few years ago, was a young
      Advocate of promise; and gave up the Arras Judgeship rather than
      sentence one man to die?—

      What his thoughts might be? His plans for finishing the Terror?
      One knows not. Dim vestiges there flit of Agrarian Law; a
      victorious Sansculottism become Landed Proprietor; old Soldiers
      sitting in National Mansions, in Hospital Palaces of Chambord and
      Chantilly; peace bought by victory; breaches healed by Feast of
      _Être Suprême;_—and so, through seas of blood, to Equality,
      Frugality, worksome Blessedness, Fraternity, and Republic of the
      virtues! Blessed shore, of such a sea of Aristocrat blood: but
      how to land on it? Through one last wave: blood of corrupt
      Sansculottists; traitorous or semi-traitorous Conventionals,
      rebellious Talliens, Billauds, to whom with my _Être Suprême_ I
      have become a bore; with my Apocalyptic Old Woman a
      laughing-stock!—So stalks he, this poor Robespierre, like a
      seagreen ghost through the blooming July. Vestiges of schemes
      flit dim. But _what_ his schemes or his thoughts were will never
      be known to man.

      New Catacombs, some say, are digging for a huge simultaneous
      butchery. Convention to be butchered, down to the right pitch, by
      General Henriot and Company: Jacobin House of Lords made
      dominant; and Robespierre Dictator.[751] There is actually, or
      else there is not actually, a List made out; which the
      Hairdresser has got eye on, as he frizzled the Incorruptible
      locks. Each man asks himself, Is it I?

      Nay, as Tradition and rumour of Anecdote still convey it, there
      was a remarkable bachelor’s dinner one hot day at Barrère’s. For
      doubt not, O Reader, this Barrère and others of them gave
      dinners; had “country-house at Clichy,” with elegant enough
      sumptuosities, and pleasures high-rouged![752] But at this dinner
      we speak of, the day being so hot, it is said, the guests all
      stript their coats, and left them in the drawing-room: whereupon
      Carnot glided out; driven by a necessity, needing of all things
      _paper;_ groped in Robespierre’s pocket; found a list of Forty,
      his own name among them; and tarried not at the wine-cup that
      day!—Ye must bestir yourselves, O Friends; ye dull Frogs of the
      Marsh, mute ever since Girondism sank under, even ye now must
      croak or die! Councils are held, with word and beck; nocturnal,
      mysterious as death. Does not a feline Maximilien stalk there;
      voiceless as yet; his green eyes red-spotted; back bent, and hair
      up? Rash Tallien, with his rash temper and audacity of tongue; he
      shall _bell the cat_. Fix a day; and be it soon, lest never!

      Lo, before the fixed day, on the day which they call Eighth of
      Thermidor, 26th July 1794, Robespierre himself reappears in
      Convention; mounts to the Tribune! The biliary face seems clouded
      with new gloom; judge whether your Talliens, Bourdons listened
      with interest. It is a voice bodeful of death or of life.
      Long-winded, unmelodious as the screech-owl’s, sounds that
      prophetic voice: Degenerate condition of Republican spirit;
      corrupt moderatism; _Sûreté, Salut_ Committees themselves
      infected; back-sliding on this hand and on that; I, Maximilien,
      alone left incorruptible, ready to die at a moment’s warning. For
      all which what remedy is there? The Guillotine; new vigour to the
      all-healing Guillotine: death to traitors of every hue! So sings
      the prophetic voice; into its Convention sounding-board. The old
      song this: but today, O Heavens! has the sounding-board ceased to
      act? There is not resonance in this Convention; there is, so to
      speak, a gasp of silence; nay a certain grating of one knows not
      what!—Lecointre, our old Draper of Versailles, in these
      questionable circumstances, sees nothing he can do so safe as
      rise, “insidiously” or not insidiously, and move, according to
      established wont, that the Robespierre Speech be “printed and
      sent to the Departments.” Hark: gratings, even of dissonance!
      Honourable Members hint dissonance; Committee-Members, inculpated
      in the Speech, utter dissonance; demand “delay in printing.” Ever
      higher rises the note of dissonance; inquiry is even made by
      Editor Fréron: ‘What has become of the Liberty of Opinions in
      this Convention?’ The Order to print and transmit, which had got
      passed, is rescinded. Robespierre, greener than ever before, has
      to retire, foiled; discerning that it is mutiny, that evil is
      nigh.

      Mutiny is a thing of the fatallest nature in all enterprises
      whatsoever; a thing so incalculable, swift-frightful; not to be
      dealt with in _fright_. But mutiny in a Robespierre Convention,
      above all,—it is like fire seen sputtering in the ship’s
      powder-room! One death-defiant plunge at it, this moment, and you
      may still tread it out: hesitate till next moment,—ship and
      ship’s captain, crew and cargo are shivered far; the ship’s
      voyage has suddenly ended between sea and sky. If Robespierre
      can, tonight, produce his Henriot and Company, and get his work
      done by them, he and Sansculottism may still subsist some time;
      if not, probably not. Oliver Cromwell, when that Agitator
      Serjeant stept forth from the ranks, with plea of grievances, and
      began gesticulating and demonstrating, as the mouthpiece of
      Thousands expectant there,—discerned, with those truculent eyes
      of his, how the matter lay; plucked a pistol from his holsters;
      blew Agitator and Agitation instantly out. Noll was a man fit for
      such things.

      Robespierre, for his part, glides over at evening to his Jacobin
      House of Lords; unfolds there, instead of some adequate
      resolution, his woes, his uncommon virtues, incorruptibilities;
      then, secondly, his rejected screech-owl Oration;—reads this
      latter over again; and declares that he is ready to die at a
      moment’s warning. Thou shalt not die! shouts Jacobinism from its
      thousand throats. ‘Robespierre, I will drink the hemlock with
      thee,’ cries Painter David, ‘_Je boirai la cigue avec toi;_’—a
      thing not essential to _do_, but which, in the fire of the
      moment, can be said.

      Our Jacobin sounding-board, therefore, does act! Applauses
      heaven-high cover the rejected Oration; fire-eyed fury lights all
      Jacobin features: Insurrection a sacred duty; the Convention to
      be purged; Sovereign People under Henriot and Municipality; we
      will make a new June-Second of it: to your tents, O Israel! In
      this key pipes Jacobinism; in sheer tumult of revolt. Let Tallien
      and all Opposition men make off. Collot d’Herbois, though of the
      supreme _Salut_, and so lately near shot, is elbowed, bullied; is
      glad to escape alive. Entering Committee-room of _Salut_, all
      dishevelled, he finds sleek sombre Saint-Just there, among the
      rest; who in his sleek way asks, ‘What is passing at the
      Jacobins?’—‘What is passing?’ repeats Collot, in the unhistrionic
      Cambyses’ vein: ‘What is passing? Nothing but revolt and horrors
      are passing. Ye want our lives; ye shall not have them.’
      Saint-Just stutters at such Cambyses’-oratory; takes his hat to
      withdraw. That _Report_ he had been speaking of, Report on
      Republican Things in General we may say, which is to be read in
      Convention on the morrow, he cannot shew it them this moment: a
      friend has it; he, Saint-Just, will get it, and send it, were he
      once home. Once home, he sends not it, but an answer that he will
      not send it; that they will hear it from the Tribune tomorrow.

      Let every man, therefore, according to a well-known good-advice,
      “pray to Heaven, and keep his powder dry!” Paris, on the morrow,
      will see a thing. Swift scouts fly dim or invisible, all night,
      from _Sûreté_ and _Salut;_ from conclave to conclave; from Mother
      Society to Townhall. Sleep, can it fall on the eyes of Talliens,
      Frérons, Collots? Puissant Henriot, Mayor Fleuriot, Judge
      Coffinhal, Procureur Payan, Robespierre and all the Jacobins are
      getting ready.


      Chapter 3.6.VII.
      Go Down to.

      Tallien’s eyes beamed bright, on the morrow, Ninth of Thermidor
      “about nine o’clock,” to see that the Convention had actually
      met. Paris is in rumour: but at least we are met, in Legal
      Convention here; we have not been snatched seriatim; treated with
      a _Pride’s Purge_ at the door. ‘_Allons_, brave men of the
      Plain,’ late Frogs of the Marsh! cried Tallien with a squeeze of
      the hand, as he passed in; Saint-Just’s sonorous organ being now
      audible from the Tribune, and the game of games begun.

      Saint-Just is verily reading that Report of his; green Vengeance,
      in the shape of Robespierre, watching nigh. Behold, however,
      Saint-Just has read but few sentences, when interruption rises,
      rapid _crescendo;_ when Tallien starts to his feet, and Billaud,
      and this man starts and that,—and Tallien, a second time, with
      his: ‘Citoyens, at the Jacobins last night, I trembled for the
      Republic. I said to myself, if the Convention dare not strike the
      Tyrant, then I myself dare; and with this I will do it, if need
      be,’ said he, whisking out a clear-gleaming Dagger, and
      brandishing it there: the Steel of Brutus, as we call it. Whereat
      we all bellow, and brandish, impetuous acclaim. ‘Tyranny;
      Dictatorship! Triumvirat!’ And the _Salut_ Committee-men accuse,
      and all men accuse, and uproar, and impetuously acclaim. And
      Saint-Just is standing motionless, pale of face; Couthon
      ejaculating, ‘Triumvir?’ with a look at his paralytic legs. And
      Robespierre is struggling to speak, but President Thuriot is
      jingling the bell against him, but the Hall is sounding against
      him like an Æolus-Hall: and Robespierre is mounting the
      Tribune-steps and descending again; going and coming, like to
      choke with rage, terror, desperation:—and mutiny is the order of
      the day![753]

      O President Thuriot, thou that wert Elector Thuriot, and from the
      Bastille battlements sawest Saint-Antoine rising like the
      Ocean-tide, and hast seen much since, sawest thou ever the like
      of this? Jingle of bell, which thou jinglest against Robespierre,
      is hardly audible amid the Bedlam-storm; and men rage for life.
      ‘President of Assassins,’ shrieks Robespierre, ‘I demand speech
      of thee for the last time!’ It cannot be had. ‘To you, O virtuous
      men of the Plain,’ cries he, finding audience one moment, ‘I
      appeal to you!’ The virtuous men of the Plain sit silent as
      stones. And Thuriot’s bell jingles, and the Hall sounds like
      Aeolus’s Hall. Robespierre’s frothing lips are grown “blue;” his
      tongue dry, cleaving to the roof of his mouth. ‘The blood of
      Danton chokes him,’ cry they. ‘Accusation! Decree of Accusation!’
      Thuriot swiftly puts that question. Accusation passes; the
      incorruptible Maximilien is decreed Accused.

      ‘I demand to share my Brother’s fate, as I have striven to share
      his virtues,’ cries Augustin, the Younger Robespierre: Augustin
      also is decreed. And Couthon, and Saint-Just, and Lebas, they are
      all decreed; and packed forth,—not without difficulty, the Ushers
      almost trembling to obey. Triumvirat and Company are packed
      forth, into Salut Committee-room; their tongue cleaving to the
      roof of their mouth. You have but to summon the Municipality; to
      cashier Commandant Henriot, and launch Arrest at him; to regular
      formalities; hand Tinville his victims. It is noon: the
      Aeolus-Hall has delivered itself; blows now victorious,
      harmonious, as one irresistible wind.

      And so the work is finished? One thinks so; and yet it is not so.
      Alas, there is yet but the first-act finished; three or four
      other acts still to come; and an uncertain catastrophe! A huge
      City holds in it so many confusions: seven hundred thousand human
      heads; not one of which knows what its neighbour is doing, nay
      not what itself is doing.—See, accordingly, about three in the
      afternoon, Commandant Henriot, how instead of sitting cashiered,
      arrested, he gallops along the Quais, followed by Municipal
      Gendarmes, “trampling down several persons!” For the Townhall
      sits deliberating, openly insurgent: Barriers to be shut; no
      Gaoler to admit any Prisoner this day;—and Henriot is galloping
      towards the Tuileries, to deliver Robespierre. On the Quai de la
      Ferraillerie, a young Citoyen, walking with his wife, says aloud:
      ‘Gendarmes, that man is not your Commandant; he is under arrest.’
      The Gendarmes strike down the young Citoyen with the flat of
      their swords.[754]

      Representatives themselves (as Merlin the Thionviller) who accost
      him, this puissant Henriot flings into guardhouses. He bursts
      towards the Tuileries Committee-room, ‘to speak with
      Robespierre:’ with difficulty, the Ushers and Tuileries
      Gendarmes, earnestly pleading and drawing sabre, seize this
      Henriot; get the Henriot Gendarmes persuaded not to fight; get
      Robespierre and Company packed into hackney-coaches, sent off
      under escort, to the Luxembourg and other Prisons. This then is
      the end? May not an exhausted Convention adjourn now, for a
      little repose and sustenance, “at five o’clock?”

      An exhausted Convention did it; and repented it. The end was not
      come; only the end of the _second-act_. Hark, while exhausted
      Representatives sit at victuals,—tocsin bursting from all
      steeples, drums rolling, in the summer evening: Judge Coffinhal
      is galloping with new Gendarmes to deliver Henriot from Tuileries
      Committee-room; and does deliver him! Puissant Henriot vaults on
      horseback; sets to haranguing the Tuileries Gendarmes; corrupts
      the Tuileries Gendarmes too; trots off with them to Townhall.
      Alas, and Robespierre is not in Prison: the Gaoler shewed his
      Municipal order, durst not on pain of his life, admit any
      Prisoner; the Robespierre Hackney-coaches, in confused jangle and
      whirl of uncertain Gendarmes, have floated safe—into the
      Townhall! There sit Robespierre and Company, embraced by
      Municipals and Jacobins, in sacred right of Insurrection;
      redacting Proclamations; sounding tocsins; corresponding with
      Sections and Mother Society. Is not here a pretty enough
      third-act of a _natural_ Greek Drama; catastrophe more uncertain
      than ever?

      The hasty Convention rushes together again, in the ominous
      nightfall: President Collot, for the chair is his, enters with
      long strides, paleness on his face; claps on his hat; says with
      solemn tone: ‘Citoyens, armed Villains have beset the
      Committee-rooms, and got possession of them. The hour is come, to
      die at our post!’ ‘_Oui_,’ answer one and all: ‘We swear it!’ It
      is no rhodomontade, this time, but a sad fact and necessity;
      unless we _do_ at our posts, we must verily die! Swift therefore,
      Robespierre, Henriot, the Municipality, are declared Rebels; put
      _Hors la Loi_, Out of Law. Better still, we appoint Barras
      Commandant of what Armed-Force is to be had; send Missionary
      Representatives to all Sections and quarters, to preach, and
      raise force; will die at least with harness on our back.

      What a distracted City; men riding and running, reporting and
      hearsaying; the Hour clearly in travail,—child not to be _named_
      till born! The poor Prisoners in the Luxembourg hear the rumour;
      tremble for a new September. They see men making signals to them,
      on skylights and roofs, apparently signals of hope; cannot in the
      least make out what it is.[755] We observe however, in the
      eventide, as usual, the Death-tumbrils faring South-eastward,
      through Saint-Antoine, towards their Barrier du Trône.
      Saint-Antoine’s tough bowels melt; Saint-Antoine surrounds the
      Tumbrils; says, It shall not be. O Heavens, why should it!
      Henriot and Gendarmes, scouring the streets that way, bellow,
      with waved sabres, that it must. Quit hope, ye poor Doomed! The
      Tumbrils move on.

      But in this set of Tumbrils there are two other things notable:
      one notable person; and one want of a notable person. The notable
      person is Lieutenant-General Loiserolles, a nobleman by birth,
      and by nature; laying down his life here for his son. In the
      Prison of Saint-Lazare, the night before last, hurrying to the
      Grate to hear the Death-list read, he caught the name of his son.
      The son was asleep at the moment. ‘I am Loiserolles,’ cried the
      old man: at Tinville’s bar, an error in the Christian name is
      little; small objection was made. The want of the notable person,
      again, is that of Deputy Paine! Paine has sat in the Luxembourg
      since January; and seemed forgotten; but Fouquier had pricked him
      at last. The Turnkey, List in hand, is marking with chalk the
      outer doors of tomorrow’s _Fournée_. Paine’s outer door happened
      to be open, turned back on the wall; the Turnkey marked it on the
      side next him, and hurried on: another Turnkey came, and shut it;
      no chalk-mark now visible, the _Fournée_ went without Paine.
      Paine’s life lay not there.—

      Our fifth-act, of this natural Greek Drama, with its natural
      unities, can only be painted in gross; somewhat as that antique
      Painter, driven desperate, did the _foam._ For through this
      blessed July night, there is clangour, confusion very great, of
      marching troops; of Sections going this way, Sections going that;
      of Missionary Representatives reading Proclamations by
      torchlight; Missionary Legendre, who has raised force somewhere,
      emptying out the Jacobins, and flinging their key on the
      Convention table: ‘I have locked their door; it shall be Virtue
      that re-opens it.’ Paris, we say, is set against itself, rushing
      confused, as Ocean-currents do; a huge Mahlstrom, sounding there,
      under cloud of night. Convention sits permanent on this hand;
      Municipality most permanent on that. The poor Prisoners hear
      tocsin and rumour; strive to bethink them of the signals
      apparently of hope. Meek continual Twilight streaming up, which
      will be Dawn and a Tomorrow, silvers the Northern hem of Night;
      it wends and wends there, that meek brightness, like a silent
      prophecy, along the great Ring-Dial of the Heaven. So still,
      eternal! And on Earth all is confused shadow and conflict;
      dissidence, tumultuous gloom and glare; and Destiny as yet shakes
      her doubtful urn.

      About three in the morning, the dissident Armed-Forces have
      _met_. Henriot’s Armed Force stood ranked in the Place de Grève;
      and now Barras’s, which he has recruited, arrives there; and they
      front each other, cannon bristling against cannon. Citoyens!
      cries the voice of Discretion, loudly enough, Before coming to
      bloodshed, to endless civil-war, hear the Convention Decree read:
      “Robespierre and all rebels Out of Law!”—Out of Law? There is
      terror in the sound: unarmed Citoyens disperse rapidly home;
      Municipal Cannoneers range themselves on the Convention side,
      with shouting. At which shout, Henriot descends from his upper
      room, far gone in drink as some say; finds his Place de Grève
      empty; the cannons’ mouth turned _towards_ him; and, on the
      whole,—that it is now the catastrophe!

      Stumbling in again, the wretched drunk-sobered Henriot announces:
      ‘All is lost!’ ‘_Misérable!_ it is thou that hast lost it,’ cry
      they: and fling him, or else he flings himself, out of window:
      far enough down; into masonwork and horror of cesspool; not into
      death but worse. Augustin Robespierre follows him; with the like
      fate. Saint-Just called on Lebas to kill him: who would not.
      Couthon crept under a table; attempting to kill himself; not
      doing it.—On entering that Sanhedrim of Insurrection, we find all
      as good as extinct; undone, ready for seizure. Robespierre was
      sitting on a chair, with pistol shot blown through, not his head,
      but his under jaw; the suicidal hand had failed.[756] With prompt
      zeal, not without trouble, we gather these wretched Conspirators;
      fish up even Henriot and Augustin, bleeding and foul; pack them
      all, rudely enough, into carts; and shall, before sunrise, have
      them safe under lock and key. Amid shoutings and embracings.

      Robespierre lay in an anteroom of the Convention Hall, while his
      Prison-escort was getting ready; the mangled jaw bound up rudely
      with bloody linen: a spectacle to men. He lies stretched on a
      table, a deal-box his pillow; the sheath of the pistol is still
      clenched convulsively in his hand. Men bully him, insult him: his
      eyes still indicate intelligence; he speaks no word. “He had on
      the sky-blue coat he had got made for the Feast of the _Être
      Suprême_”—O reader, can thy hard heart hold out against that? His
      trousers were nankeen; the stockings had fallen down over the
      ankles. He spake no word more in this world.

      And so, at six in the morning, a victorious Convention adjourns.
      Report flies over Paris as on golden wings; penetrates the
      Prisons; irradiates the faces of those that were ready to perish:
      turnkeys and _moutons_, fallen from their high estate, look mute
      and blue. It is the 28th day of July, called 10th of Thermidor,
      year 1794.

      Fouquier had but to identify; his Prisoners being already Out of
      Law. At four in the afternoon, never before were the streets of
      Paris seen so crowded. From the Palais de Justice to the Place de
      la Révolution, for _thither_ again go the Tumbrils this time, it
      is one dense stirring mass; all windows crammed; the very roofs
      and ridge-tiles budding forth human Curiosity, in strange
      gladness. The Death-tumbrils, with their motley Batch of Outlaws,
      some Twenty-three or so, from Maximilien to Mayor Fleuriot and
      Simon the Cordwainer, roll on. All eyes are on Robespierre’s
      Tumbril, where he, his jaw bound in dirty linen, with his
      half-dead Brother, and half-dead Henriot, lie shattered; their
      “seventeen hours” of agony about to end. The Gendarmes point
      their swords at him, to shew the people which is he. A woman
      springs on the Tumbril; clutching the side of it with one hand;
      waving the other Sibyl-like; and exclaims: ‘The death of thee
      gladdens my very heart, _m’enivre de joie;_’ Robespierre opened
      his eyes; ‘_Scélérat_, go down to Hell, with the curses of all
      wives and mothers!’—At the foot of the scaffold, they stretched
      him on the ground till his turn came. Lifted aloft, his eyes
      again opened; caught the bloody axe. Samson wrenched the coat off
      him; wrenched the dirty linen from his jaw: the jaw fell
      powerless, there burst from him a cry;—hideous to hear and see.
      Samson, thou canst not be too quick!

      Samson’s work done, there burst forth shout on shout of applause.
      Shout, which prolongs itself not only over Paris, but over
      France, but over Europe, and down to this Generation. Deservedly,
      and also undeservedly. O unhappiest Advocate of Arras, wert thou
      worse than other Advocates? Stricter man, according to his
      Formula, to his Credo and his Cant, of probities, benevolences,
      pleasures-of-virtue, and such like, lived not in that age. A man
      fitted, in some luckier settled age, to have become one of those
      incorruptible barren Pattern-Figures, and have had marble-tablets
      and funeral-sermons! His poor landlord, the Cabinetmaker in the
      Rue Saint-Honoré, loved him; his Brother died for him. May God be
      merciful to him, and to us.

      This is end of the Reign of Terror; new glorious _Revolution_
      named _of Thermidor;_ of Thermidor 9th, year 2; which being
      interpreted into old slave-style means 27th of July, 1794. Terror
      is ended; and death in the Place de la Révolution, were the
      “_Tail_ of Robespierre” once executed; which service Fouquier in
      large Batches is swiftly managing.


      BOOK 3.VII.
      VENDÉMIAIRE


      Chapter 3.7.I.
      Decadent.

      How little did any one suppose that here was the end not of
      Robespierre only, but of the Revolution System itself! Least of
      all did the mutinying Committee-men suppose it; who had mutinied
      with no view whatever except to continue the National
      Regeneration with their own heads on their shoulders. And yet so
      it verily was. The insignificant stone they had struck out, so
      insignificant anywhere else, proved to be the Keystone: the whole
      arch-work and edifice of Sansculottism began to loosen, to crack,
      to yawn; and tumbled, piecemeal, with considerable rapidity,
      plunge after plunge; till the Abyss had swallowed it all, and in
      this upper world Sansculottism was no more.

      For despicable as Robespierre himself might be, the death of
      Robespierre was a signal at which great multitudes of men, struck
      dumb with terror heretofore, rose out of their hiding places:
      and, as it were, saw one another, how multitudinous they were;
      and began speaking and complaining. They are countable by the
      thousand and the million; who have suffered cruel wrong. Ever
      louder rises the plaint of such a multitude; into a universal
      sound, into a universal continuous peal, of what they call Public
      Opinion. Camille had demanded a “Committee of Mercy,” and could
      not get it; but now the whole nation resolves itself into a
      Committee of Mercy: the Nation has tried Sansculottism, and is
      weary of it. Force of Public Opinion! What King or Convention can
      withstand it? You in vain struggle: the thing that is rejected as
      “calumnious” today must pass as veracious with triumph another
      day: gods and men have declared that Sansculottism cannot be.
      Sansculottism, on that Ninth night of Thermidor suicidally
      “fractured its under jaw;” and lies writhing, never to rise more.

      Through the next fifteenth months, it is what we may call the
      death-agony of Sansculottism. Sansculottism, Anarchy of the
      Jean-Jacques Evangel, having now got deep enough, is to perish in
      a new singular system of Culottism and Arrangement. For
      Arrangement is indispensable to man; Arrangement, were it
      grounded only on that old primary Evangel of Force, with Sceptre
      in the shape of Hammer. Be there method, be there order, cry all
      men; were it that of the Drill-serjeant! More tolerable is the
      drilled Bayonet-rank, than that undrilled Guillotine,
      incalculable as the wind.—How Sansculottism, writhing in
      death-throes, strove some twice, or even three times, to get on
      its feet again; but fell always, and was flung resupine, the next
      instant; and finally breathed out the life of it, and stirred no
      more: this we are now, from a due distance, with due brevity, to
      glance at; and then—O Reader!—Courage, I see land!

      Two of the first acts of the Convention, very natural for it
      after this Thermidor, are to be specified here: the first is
      renewal of the Governing Committees. Both _Sûreté Générale_ and
      _Salut Public_, thinned by the Guillotine, need filling up: we
      naturally fill them up with Talliens, Frérons, victorious
      Thermidorian men. Still more to the purpose, we appoint that they
      shall, as Law directs, not in name only but in deed, be renewed
      and changed from period to period; a fourth part of them going
      out monthly. The Convention will no more lie under bondage of
      Committees, under terror of death; but be a free Convention; free
      to follow its own judgment, and the Force of Public Opinion. Not
      less natural is it to enact that Prisoners and Persons under
      Accusation shall have right to demand some “Writ of Accusation,”
      and see clearly what they are accused of. Very natural acts: the
      harbingers of hundreds not less so.

      For now Fouquier’s trade, shackled by Writ of Accusation, and
      legal proof, is as good as gone; effectual only against
      Robespierre’s Tail. The Prisons give up their Suspects; emit them
      faster and faster. The Committees see themselves besieged with
      Prisoners’ friends; complain that they are hindered in their
      work: it is as with men rushing out of a crowded place; and
      obstructing one another. Turned are the tables: Prisoners pouring
      out in floods; Jailors, _Moutons_ and the Tail of Robespierre
      going now whither they were wont to send!—The Hundred and
      thirty-two Nantese Republicans, whom we saw marching in irons,
      have arrived; shrunk to Ninety-four, the fifth man of them choked
      by the road. They arrive: and suddenly find themselves not
      pleaders for life, but denouncers to death. Their Trial is for
      acquittal, and more. As the voice of a trumpet, their testimony
      sounds far and wide, mere atrocities of a Reign of Terror. For a
      space of nineteen days; with all solemnity and publicity.
      Representative Carrier, Company of Marat; Noyadings, Loire
      Marriages, things done in darkness, come forth into light: clear
      is the voice of these poor resuscitated Nantese; and Journals and
      Speech and universal Committee of Mercy reverberate it loud
      enough, into all ears and hearts. Deputation arrives from Arras;
      denouncing the atrocities of Representative Lebon. A tamed
      Convention loves its own life: yet what help? Representative
      Lebon, Representative Carrier must wend towards the Revolutionary
      Tribunal; struggle and delay as we will, the cry of a Nation
      pursues them louder and louder. Them also Tinville must
      abolish;—if indeed Tinville himself be not abolished.

      We must note moreover the decrepit condition into which a once
      omnipotent Mother Society has fallen. Legendre flung her keys on
      the Convention table, that Thermidor night; her President was
      guillotined with Robespierre. The once mighty Mother came, some
      time after, with a subdued countenance, begging back her keys:
      the keys were restored her; but the strength could not be
      restored her; the strength had departed forever. Alas, one’s day
      is done. Vain that the Tribune in mid air sounds as of old: to
      the general ear it has become a horror, and even a weariness. By
      and by, Affiliation is prohibited: the mighty Mother sees herself
      suddenly childless; mourns, as so hoarse a Rachel may.

      The Revolutionary Committees, without Suspects to prey upon,
      perish fast; as it were of famine. In Paris the whole Forty-eight
      of them are reduced to Twelve, their _Forty sous_ are abolished:
      yet a little while, and Revolutionary Committees are no more.
      _Maximum_ will be abolished; let Sansculottism find food where it
      can.[757] Neither is there now any Municipality; any centre at
      the Townhall. Mayor Fleuriot and Company perished; whom we shall
      not be in haste to replace. The Townhall remains in a broken
      submissive state; knows not well what it is growing to; knows
      only that it is grown weak, and must obey. What if we should
      split Paris into, say, a Dozen separate Municipalities; incapable
      of concert! The Sections were thus rendered safe to act with:—or
      indeed might not the Sections themselves be abolished? You had
      then merely your Twelve manageable pacific Townships, without
      centre or subdivision;[758] and sacred right of Insurrection fell
      into abeyance!

      So much is getting abolished; fleeting swiftly into the Inane.
      For the Press speaks, and the human tongue; Journals, heavy and
      light, in Philippic and Burlesque: a renegade Fréron, a renegade
      Prudhomme, loud they as ever, only the contrary way. And
      _Ci-devants_ show themselves, almost parade themselves;
      resuscitated as from death-sleep; publish what death-pains they
      have had. The very Frogs of the Marsh croak with emphasis. Your
      protesting Seventy-three shall, with a struggle, be emitted out
      of Prison, back to their seats; your Louvets, Isnards,
      Lanjuinais, and wrecks of Girondism, recalled from their
      haylofts, and caves in Switzerland, will resume their place in
      the Convention:[759] natural foes of Terror!

      Thermidorian Talliens, and mere foes of Terror, rule in this
      Convention, and out of it. The compressed Mountain shrinks silent
      more and more. Moderatism rises louder and louder: not as a
      tempest, with threatenings; say rather, as the rushing of a
      mighty organ-blast, and melodious deafening Force of Public
      Opinion, from the Twenty-five million windpipes of a Nation all
      in Committee of Mercy: which how shall any detached body of
      individuals withstand?


      Chapter 3.7.II.
      La Cabarus.

      How, above all, shall a poor National Convention, withstand it?
      In this poor National Convention, broken, bewildered by long
      terror, perturbations, and guillotinement, there is no Pilot,
      there is not now even a Danton, who could undertake to steer you
      anywhither, in such press of weather. The utmost a bewildered
      Convention can do, is to veer, and trim, and try to keep itself
      steady: and rush, undrowned, before the wind. Needless to
      struggle; to fling helm a-lee, and make ’_bout ship!_ A
      bewildered Convention sails not in the teeth of the wind; but is
      rapidly blown round again. So strong is the wind, we say; and so
      changed; blowing fresher and fresher, as from the sweet
      South-West; your devastating North-Easters, and wild
      tornado-gusts of Terror, blown utterly out! All Sansculottic
      things are passing away; all things are becoming Culottic.

      Do but look at the cut of clothes; that light visible Result,
      significant of a thousand things which are not so visible. In
      winter 1793, men went in red nightcaps; Municipals themselves in
      _sabots;_ the very Citoyennes had to petition against such
      headgear. But now in this winter 1794, where is the red nightcap?
      With the thing beyond the Flood. Your monied Citoyen ponders in
      what elegantest style he shall dress himself: whether he shall
      not even dress himself as the Free Peoples of Antiquity. The more
      adventurous Citoyenne has already done it. Behold her, that
      beautiful adventurous Citoyenne: in costume of the Ancient
      Greeks, such Greek as Painter David could teach; her sweeping
      tresses snooded by glittering antique fillet; bright-eyed tunic
      of the Greek women; her little feet naked, as in Antique Statues,
      with mere sandals, and winding-strings of riband,—defying the
      frost!

      There is such an effervescence of Luxury. For your Emigrant
      _Ci-devants_ carried not their mansions and furnitures out of the
      country with them; but left them standing here: and in the swift
      changes of property, what with money coined on the Place de la
      Révolution, what with Army-furnishings, sales of Emigrant Domain
      and Church Lands and King’s Lands, and then with the
      Aladdin’s-lamp of Agio in a time of Paper-money, such mansions
      have found new occupants. Old wine, drawn from _Ci-devant_
      bottles, descends new throats. Paris has swept herself, relighted
      herself; Salons, Soupers not Fraternal, beam once more with
      suitable effulgence, very singular in colour. The fair Cabarus is
      come out of Prison; wedded to her red-gloomy Dis, whom they say
      she treats too loftily: fair Cabarus gives the most brilliant
      soirées. Round her is gathered a new Republican Army, of
      Citoyennes in sandals; _Ci-devants_ or other: what remnants
      soever of the old grace survive, are rallied there. At her
      right-hand, in this cause, labours fair Josephine the Widow
      Beauharnais, though in straitened circumstances: intent, both of
      them, to blandish down the grimness of Republican austerity, and
      recivilise mankind.

      Recivilise, as of old they were civilised: by witchery of the
      Orphic fiddle-bow, and Euterpean rhythm; by the Graces, by the
      Smiles! Thermidorian Deputies are there in those soirées; Editor
      Fréron, _Orateur du Peuple;_ Barras, who has known other dances
      than the Carmagnole. Grim Generals of the Republic are there; in
      enormous horse-collar neckcloth, good against sabre-cuts; the
      hair gathered all into one knot, “flowing down behind, fixed with
      a comb.” Among which latter do we not recognise, once more, the
      little bronzed-complexioned Artillery-Officer of Toulon, home
      from the Italian Wars! Grim enough; of lean, almost cruel aspect:
      for he has been in trouble, in ill health; also in ill favour, as
      a man promoted, deservingly or not, by the Terrorists and
      Robespierre Junior. But does not Barras know him? Will not Barras
      speak a word for him? Yes,—if at any time it will serve Barras so
      to do. Somewhat forlorn of fortune, for the present, stands that
      Artillery-Officer; looks, with those deep earnest eyes of his,
      into a future as waste as the most. Taciturn; yet with the
      strangest utterances in him, if you awaken him, which smite home,
      like light or lightning:—on the whole, rather dangerous? A
      “dissociable” man? Dissociable enough; a natural terror and
      horror to all Phantasms, being himself of the genus Reality! He
      stands here, without work or outlook, in this forsaken
      manner;—glances nevertheless, it would seem, at the kind glance
      of Josephine Beauharnais; and, for the rest, with severe
      countenance, with open eyes and closed lips, waits what will
      betide.

      That the Balls, therefore, have a new figure this winter, we can
      see. Not Carmagnoles, rude “whirlblasts of rags,” as Mercier
      called them “precursors of storm and destruction:” no, soft Ionic
      motions; fit for the light sandal, and antique Grecian tunic!
      Efflorescence of Luxury has come out: for men have wealth; nay
      new-got wealth; and under the Terror you durst not dance except
      in rags. Among the innumerable kinds of Balls, let the hasty
      reader mark only this single one: the kind they call Victim
      Balls, _Bals à Victime_. The dancers, in choice costume, have all
      crape round the left arm: to be admitted, it needs that you be a
      _Victime;_ that you have lost a relative under the Terror. Peace
      to the Dead; let us _dance_ to their memory! For in all ways one
      must dance.

      It is very remarkable, according to Mercier, under what varieties
      of figure this great business of dancing goes on. “The women,”
      says he, “are Nymphs, Sultanas; sometimes Minervas, Junos, even
      Dianas. In light-unerring gyrations they swim there; with such
      earnestness of purpose; with perfect silence, so absorbed are
      they. What is singular,” continues he, “the onlookers are as it
      were mingled with the dancers; form as it were a circumambient
      element round the different contre-dances, yet without deranging
      them. It is rare, in fact, that a Sultana in such circumstances
      experience the smallest collision. Her pretty foot darts down, an
      inch from mine; she is off again; she is as a flash of light: but
      soon the measure recalls her to the point she set out from. Like
      a glittering comet she travels her eclipse, revolving on herself,
      as by a double effect of gravitation and attraction.”[760]
      Looking forward a little way, into Time, the same Mercier
      discerns _Merveilleuses_ in “flesh-coloured drawers” with gold
      circlets; mere dancing Houris of an artificial
      Mahomet’s-Paradise: much too Mahometan. Montgaillard, with his
      splenetic eye, notes a no less strange thing; that every
      fashionable Citoyenne you meet is in an interesting situation.
      Good Heavens, _every?_ Mere pillows and stuffing! adds the acrid
      man;—such, in a time of depopulation by war and guillotine, being
      the fashion.[761] No further seek its merits to disclose.

      Behold also instead of the old grim _Tappe-durs_ of Robespierre,
      what new street-groups are these? Young men habited not in
      black-shag Carmagnole spencer, but in superfine _habit carré_ or
      spencer with rectangular tail appended to it; “square-tailed
      coat,” with elegant antiguillotinish specialty of collar; “the
      hair plaited at the temples,” and knotted back, long-flowing, in
      military wise: young men of what they call the _Muscadin_ or
      Dandy species! Fréron, in his fondness names them _Jeunesse
      Dorée_, Golden, or Gilt Youth. They have come out, these Gilt
      Youths, in a kind of resuscitated state; they wear crape round
      the left arm, such of them as were _Victims_. More they carry
      clubs loaded with lead; in an angry manner: any _Tappe-dur_ or
      remnant of Jacobinism they may fall in with, shall fare the
      worse. They have suffered much: their friends guillotined; their
      pleasures, frolics, superfine collars ruthlessly repressed: “ware
      now the base Red Nightcaps who did it! Fair Cabarus and the Army
      of Greek sandals smile approval. In the Théâtre Feydeau, young
      Valour in square-tailed coat eyes Beauty in Greek sandals, and
      kindles by her glances: Down with Jacobinism! No Jacobin hymn or
      demonstration, only Thermidorian ones, shall be permitted here:
      we beat down Jacobinism with clubs loaded with lead.

      But let any one who has examined the Dandy nature, how petulant
      it is, especially in the gregarious state, think what an element,
      in sacred right of insurrection, this Gilt Youth was! Broils and
      battery; war without truce or measure! Hateful is Sansculottism,
      as Death and Night. For indeed is not the Dandy _culottic_,
      habilatory, by law of existence; “a cloth-animal: one that lives,
      moves, and has his being in cloth?”—

      So goes it, waltzing, bickering; fair Cabarus, by Orphic
      witchery, struggling to recivilise mankind. Not unsuccessfully,
      we hear. What utmost Republican grimness can resist Greek
      sandals, in Ionic motion, the very toes covered with gold
      rings?[762] By degrees the indisputablest new-politeness rises;
      grows, with vigour. And yet, whether, even to this day, that
      inexpressible tone of society known under the old Kings, when Sin
      had “lost all its deformity” (with or without advantage to us),
      and airy Nothing had obtained such a local habitation and
      establishment as she never had,—be recovered? Or even, whether it
      be not lost beyond recovery?[763]—Either way, the world must
      contrive to struggle on.


      Chapter 3.7.III.
      Quiberon.

      But indeed do not these long-flowing hair-queues of a _Jeunesse
      Dorée_ in semi-military costume betoken, unconsciously, another
      still more important tendency? The Republic, abhorrent of her
      Guillotine, loves her Army.

      And with cause. For, surely, if good fighting be a kind of
      honour, as it is, in its season; and be with the vulgar of men,
      even the chief kind of honour, then here is good fighting, in
      good season, if there ever was. These Sons of the Republic, they
      rose, in mad wrath, to deliver her from Slavery and Cimmeria. And
      have they not done it? Through Maritime Alps, through gorges of
      Pyrenees, through Low Countries, Northward along the
      Rhine-valley, far is Cimmeria hurled back from the sacred
      Motherland. Fierce as fire, they have carried her Tricolor over
      the faces of all her enemies;—over scarped heights, over
      cannon-batteries; down, as with the Vengeur, into the dead deep
      sea. She has “Eleven hundred thousand fighters on foot,” this
      Republic: “At one particular moment she had,” or supposed she
      had, “seventeen hundred thousand.”[764] Like a ring of lightning,
      they, volleying and _ça-ira_-ing, begirdle her from shore to
      shore. Cimmerian Coalition of Despots recoils; smitten with
      astonishment, and strange pangs.

      Such a fire is in these Gaelic Republican men; high-blazing;
      which no Coalition can withstand! Not scutcheons, with four
      degrees of nobility; but _ci-devant_ Sergeants, who have had to
      clutch Generalship out of the cannon’s throat, a Pichegru, a
      Jourdan, a Hoche, lead them on. They have bread, they have iron;
      “with bread and iron you can get to China.”—See Pichegru’s
      soldiers, this hard winter, in their looped and windowed
      destitution, in their “straw-rope shoes and cloaks of bass-mat,”
      how they overrun Holland, like a demon-host, the ice having
      bridged all waters; and rush shouting from victory to victory!
      Ships in the Texel are taken by huzzars on horseback: fled is
      York; fled is the Stadtholder, glad to escape to England, and
      leave Holland to fraternise.[765] Such a Gaelic fire, we say,
      blazes in this People, like the conflagration of grass and
      dry-jungle; which no mortal can withstand—for the moment.

      And even so it will blaze and run, scorching all things; and,
      from Cadiz to Archangel, mad Sansculottism, drilled now into
      Soldiership, led on by some “armed Soldier of Democracy” (say,
      that Monosyllabic Artillery-Officer), will set its foot cruelly
      on the necks of its enemies; and its shouting and their shrieking
      shall fill the world!—Rash Coalised Kings, such a fire have ye
      kindled; yourselves fireless, _your_ fighters animated only by
      drill-serjeants, messroom moralities, and the drummer’s cat!
      However, it is begun, and will not end: not for a matter of
      twenty years. So long, this Gaelic fire, through its successive
      changes of colour and character, will blaze over the face of
      Europe, and afflict the scorch all men:—till it provoke all men;
      till it kindle another kind of fire, the Teutonic kind, namely;
      and be swallowed up, so to speak, in a day! For there is a fire
      comparable to the burning of dry-jungle and grass; most sudden,
      high-blazing: and another fire which we liken to the burning of
      coal, or even of anthracite coal; difficult to kindle, but then
      which nothing will put out. The ready Gaelic fire, we can remark
      further, and remark not in Pichegrus only, but in innumerable
      Voltaires, Racines, Laplaces, no less; for a man, whether he
      fight, or sing, or think, will remain the same unity of a man,—is
      admirable for roasting eggs, in every conceivable sense. The
      Teutonic anthracite again, as we see in Luthers, Leibnitzes,
      Shakespeares, is preferable for smelting metals. How happy is our
      Europe that has both kinds!—

      But be this as it may, the Republic is clearly triumphing. In the
      spring of the year Mentz Town again sees itself besieged; will
      again change master: did not Merlin the Thionviller, “with wild
      beard and look,” say it was not for the last time they saw him
      there? The Elector of Mentz circulates among his brother
      Potentates this pertinent query, Were it not advisable to treat
      of Peace? Yes! answers many an Elector from the bottom of his
      heart. But, on the other hand, Austria hesitates; finally
      refuses, being subsidied by Pitt. As to Pitt, whoever hesitate,
      he, suspending his Habeas-corpus, suspending his Cash-payments,
      stands inflexible,—spite of foreign reverses; spite of domestic
      obstacles, of Scotch National Conventions and English Friends of
      the People, whom he is obliged to arraign, to hang, or even to
      see acquitted with jubilee: a lean inflexible man. The Majesty of
      Spain, as we predicted, makes Peace; also the Majesty of Prussia:
      and there is a Treaty of Bâle.[766] Treaty with black Anarchists
      and Regicides! Alas, what help? You cannot hang this Anarchy; it
      is like to hang you: you must needs treat with it.

      Likewise, General Hoche has even succeeded in pacificating La
      Vendée. Rogue Rossignol and his “Infernal Columns” have vanished:
      by firmness and justice, by sagacity and industry, General Hoche
      has done it. Taking “Movable Columns,” not infernal; girdling-in
      the Country; pardoning the submissive, cutting down the
      resistive, limb after limb of the Revolt is brought under. La
      Rochejacquelin, last of our Nobles, fell in battle; Stofflet
      himself makes terms; Georges-Cadoudal is back to Brittany, among
      his Chouans: the frightful gangrene of La Vendée seems veritably
      extirpated. It has cost, as they reckon in round numbers, the
      lives of a Hundred Thousand fellow-mortals; with noyadings,
      conflagratings by infernal column, which defy arithmetic. This is
      the La Vendée War.[767]

      Nay in few months, it does burst up once more, but once
      only:—blown upon by Pitt, by our Ci-devant Puisaye of Calvados,
      and others. In the month of July 1795, English Ships will ride in
      Quiberon roads. There will be debarkation of chivalrous
      Ci-devants, of volunteer Prisoners-of-war—eager to desert; of
      fire-arms, Proclamations, clothes-chests, Royalists and specie.
      Whereupon also, on the Republican side, there will be rapid
      stand-to-arms; with ambuscade marchings by Quiberon beach, at
      midnight; storming of Fort Penthievre; war-thunder mingling with
      the roar of the nightly main; and such a morning light as has
      seldom dawned; debarkation hurled back into its boats, or into
      the devouring billows, with wreck and wail;—in one word, a
      Ci-devant Puisaye as totally ineffectual here as he was in
      Calvados, when he rode from Vernon Castle without boots.[768]

      Again, therefore, it has cost the lives of many a brave man.
      Among whom the whole world laments the brave Son of Sombreuil.
      Ill-fated family! The father and younger son went to the
      guillotine; the heroic daughter languishes, reduced to want,
      hides her woes from History: the elder son perishes here; shot by
      military tribunal as an Emigrant; Hoche himself cannot save him.
      If all wars, civil and other, are misunderstandings, what a thing
      must right-understanding be!


      Chapter 3.7.IV.
      Lion not Dead.

      The Convention, borne on the tide of Fortune towards foreign
      Victory, and driven by the strong wind of Public Opinion towards
      Clemency and Luxury, is rushing fast; all skill of pilotage is
      needed, and more than all, in such a velocity.

      Curious to see, how we veer and whirl, yet must ever whirl round
      again, and scud before the wind. If, on the one hand, we re-admit
      the Protesting Seventy-Three, we, on the other hand, agree to
      consummate the Apotheosis of Marat; lift his body from the
      Cordeliers Church, and transport it to the Pantheon of Great
      Men,—flinging out Mirabeau to make room for him. To no purpose:
      so strong blows Public Opinion! A Gilt Youthhood, in plaited
      hair-tresses, tears down his Busts from the Theatre Feydeau;
      tramples them under foot; scatters them, with vociferation into
      the Cesspool of Montmartre.[769] Swept is his Chapel from the
      Place du Carrousel; the Cesspool of Montmartre will receive his
      very dust. Shorter godhood had no divine man. Some four months in
      this Pantheon, Temple of All the Immortals; then to the Cesspool,
      grand _Cloaca_ of Paris and the World! “His Busts at one time
      amounted to four thousand.” Between Temple of All the Immortals
      and Cloaca of the World, how are poor human creatures whirled!

      Furthermore the question arises, When will the Constitution of
      _Ninety-three_, of 1793, come into action? Considerate heads
      surmise, in all privacy, that the Constitution of Ninety-three
      will never come into action. Let them busy themselves to get
      ready a better.

      Or, again, where now are the Jacobins? Childless, most decrepit,
      as we saw, sat the mighty Mother; gnashing not teeth, but empty
      gums, against a traitorous Thermidorian Convention and the
      current of things. Twice were Billaud, Collot and Company accused
      in Convention, by a Lecointre, by a Legendre; and the second
      time, it was not voted calumnious. Billaud from the Jacobin
      tribune says, ‘The lion is not dead, he is only sleeping.’ They
      ask him in Convention, What he means by the awakening of the
      lion? And bickerings, of an extensive sort, arose in the
      Palais-Egalité between _Tappe-durs_ and the Gilt Youthhood; cries
      of ‘Down with the Jacobins, the _Jacoquins_,’ _coquin_ meaning
      scoundrel! The Tribune in mid-air gave battle-sound; answered
      only by silence and uncertain gasps. Talk was, in Government
      Committees, of “suspending” the Jacobin Sessions. Hark, there!—it
      is in Allhallow-time, or on the Hallow-eve itself, month
      _ci-devant_ November, year once named of Grace 1794, sad eve for
      Jacobinism,—volley of stones dashing through our windows, with
      jingle and execration! The female Jacobins, famed _Tricoteuses_
      with knitting-needles, take flight; are met at the doors by a
      Gilt Youthhood and “mob of four thousand persons;” are hooted,
      flouted, hustled; fustigated, in a scandalous manner, _cotillons
      retroussés;_—and vanish in mere hysterics. Sally out ye male
      Jacobins! The male Jacobins sally out; but only to battle,
      disaster and confusion. So that armed Authority has to intervene:
      and again on the morrow to intervene; and suspend the Jacobin
      Sessions forever and a day.[770] Gone are the Jacobins; into
      invisibility; in a storm of laughter and howls. Their place is
      made a Normal School, the first of the kind seen; it then
      vanishes into a “Market of Thermidor Ninth;” into a Market of
      Saint-Honoré, where is now peaceable chaffering for poultry and
      greens. The solemn temples, the great globe itself; the baseless
      fabric! Are not we such stuff, we and this world of ours, as
      Dreams are made of?

      Maximum being abrogated, Trade was to take its own free course.
      Alas, Trade, shackled, topsyturvied in the way we saw, and now
      suddenly let go again, can for the present take no course at all;
      but only reel and stagger. There is, so to speak, no Trade
      whatever for the time being. Assignats, long sinking, emitted in
      such quantities, sink now with an alacrity beyond parallel.
      ‘_Combien?_’ said one, to a Hackney-coachman, ‘What fare?’ ‘Six
      thousand livres,’ answered he: some three hundred pounds
      sterling, in Paper-money.[771] Pressure of Maximum withdrawn, the
      things it compressed likewise withdraw. “Two ounces of bread per
      day” in the modicum allotted: wide-waving, doleful are the
      Bakers’ Queues; Farmers’ houses are become pawnbrokers’ shops.

      One can imagine, in these circumstances, with what humour
      Sansculottism growled in its throat, ‘_La Cabarus;_’ beheld
      Ci-devants return dancing, the Thermidor effulgence of
      recivilisation, and Balls in flesh-coloured drawers. Greek tunics
      and sandals; hosts of _Muscadins_ parading, with their clubs
      loaded with lead;—and we here, cast out, abhorred, “picking
      offals from the street;”[772] agitating in Baker’s Queue for our
      two ounces of bread! Will the Jacobin lion, which they say is
      meeting secretly “at the Archevêché, in _bonnet rouge_ with
      loaded pistols,” not awaken? Seemingly not. Our Collot, our
      Billaud, Barrère, Vadier, in these last days of March 1795, are
      found worthy of _Déportation_, of Banishment beyond seas; and
      shall, for the present, be trundled off to the Castle of Ham. The
      lion is dead;—or writhing in death-throes!

      Behold, accordingly, on the day they call Twelfth of Germinal
      (which is also called First of April, not a lucky day), how
      lively are these streets of Paris once more! Floods of hungry
      women, of squalid hungry men; ejaculating: ‘Bread, Bread and the
      Constitution of Ninety-three!’ Paris has risen, once again, like
      the Ocean-tide; is flowing towards the Tuileries, for Bread and a
      Constitution. Tuileries Sentries do their best; but it serves
      not: the Ocean-tide sweeps them away; inundates the Convention
      Hall itself; howling, ‘Bread, and the Constitution!’

      Unhappy Senators, unhappy People, there is yet, after all toils
      and broils, no Bread, no Constitution. ‘_Du pain, pas tant de
      longs discours_, Bread, not bursts of Parliamentary eloquence!’
      so wailed the Menads of Maillard, five years ago and more; so
      wail ye to this hour. The Convention, with unalterable
      countenance, with what thought one knows not, keeps its seat in
      this waste howling chaos; rings its stormbell from the Pavilion
      of Unity. Section Lepelletier, old _Filles Saint-Thomas_, who are
      of the money-changing species; these and Gilt Youthhood fly to
      the rescue; sweep chaos forth again, with levelled bayonets.
      Paris is declared “in a state of siege.” Pichegru, Conqueror of
      Holland, who happens to be here, is named Commandant, till the
      disturbance end. He, in one day, so to speak, ends it. He
      accomplishes the transfer of Billaud, Collot and Company;
      dissipating all opposition “by two cannon-shots,” blank
      cannon-shots, and the terror of his name; and thereupon
      announcing, with a Laconicism which should be imitated,
      ‘Representatives, your decrees are executed,’[773] lays down his
      Commandantship.

      This Revolt of Germinal, therefore, has passed, like a vain cry.
      The Prisoners rest safe in Ham, waiting for ships; some nine
      hundred “chief Terrorists of Paris” are disarmed. Sansculottism,
      swept forth with bayonets, has vanished, with its misery, to the
      bottom of Saint-Antoine and Saint-Marceau.—Time was when Usher
      Maillard with Menads could alter the course of Legislation; but
      that time is not. Legislation seems to have got bayonets; Section
      Lepelletier takes its firelock, not for us! We retire to our dark
      dens; our cry of hunger is called a Plot of Pitt; the Saloons
      glitter, the flesh-coloured Drawers gyrate as before. It was for
      ‘_The Cabarus_’ then, and her _Muscadins_ and Money-changers,
      that we fought? It was for Balls in flesh-coloured drawers that
      we took Feudalism by the beard, and did, and dared, shedding our
      blood like water? Expressive Silence, muse thou their praise!—


      Chapter 3.7.V.
      Lion Sprawling its Last.

      Representative Carrier went to the Guillotine, in December last;
      protesting that he acted by orders. The Revolutionary Tribunal,
      after all it has devoured, has now only, as Anarchic things do,
      to devour itself. In the early days of May, men see a remarkable
      thing: Fouquier-Tinville pleading at the Bar once his own. He and
      his chief Jurymen, Leroi _August-Tenth_, Juryman Vilate, a Batch
      of Sixteen; pleading hard, protesting that they acted by orders:
      but pleading in vain. Thus men break the axe with which they have
      done hateful things; the axe itself having grown hateful. For the
      rest, Fouquier died hard enough: ‘Where are thy Batches?’ howled
      the People.—‘Hungry _canaille_,’ asked Fouquier, ‘is thy Bread
      cheaper, wanting them?’

      Remarkable Fouquier; once but as other Attorneys and Law-beagles,
      which hunt ravenous on this Earth, a well-known phasis of human
      nature; and now thou art and remainest the most remarkable
      Attorney that ever lived and hunted in the Upper Air! For, in
      this terrestrial Course of Time, there was to be an _Avatar_ of
      Attorneyism; the Heavens had said, Let there be an Incarnation,
      not divine, of the venatory Attorney-spirit which keeps its eye
      on the bond only;—and lo, this was it; and they have attorneyed
      it in its turn. Vanish, then, thou rat-eyed Incarnation of
      Attorneyism; who at bottom wert but as other Attorneys, and too
      hungry Sons of Adam! Juryman Vilate had striven hard for life,
      and published, from his Prison, an ingenious Book, not unknown to
      us; but it would not stead: he also had to vanish; and this his
      Book of the _Secret Causes of Thermidor_, full of lies, with
      particles of truth in it undiscoverable otherwise, is all that
      remains of him.

      Revolutionary Tribunal has done; but vengeance has not done.
      Representative Lebon, after long struggling, is handed over to
      the ordinary Law Courts, and by them guillotined. Nay, at Lyons
      and elsewhere, resuscitated Moderatism, in its vengeance, will
      not wait the slow process of Law; but bursts into the Prisons,
      sets fire to the prisons; burns some three score imprisoned
      Jacobins to dire death, or chokes them “with the smoke of straw.”
      There go vengeful truculent “Companies of Jesus,” “Companies of
      the Sun;” slaying Jacobinism wherever they meet with it; flinging
      it into the Rhone-stream; which, once more, bears seaward a
      horrid cargo.[774] Whereupon, at Toulon, Jacobinism rises in
      revolt; and is like to hang the National Representatives.—With
      such action and reaction, is not a poor National Convention hard
      bested? It is like the settlement of winds and waters, of seas
      long tornado-beaten; and goes on with jumble and with jangle. Now
      flung aloft, now sunk in trough of the sea, your Vessel of the
      Republic has need of all pilotage and more.

      What Parliament that ever sat under the Moon had such a series of
      destinies, as this National Convention of France? It came
      together to make the Constitution; and instead of that, it has
      had to make nothing but destruction and confusion: to burn up
      Catholicisms, Aristocratisms, to worship Reason and dig
      Saltpetre, to fight Titanically with itself and with the whole
      world. A Convention decimated by the Guillotine; above the tenth
      man has bowed his neck to the axe. Which has seen Carmagnoles
      danced before it, and patriotic strophes sung amid Church-spoils;
      the wounded of the Tenth of August defile in handbarrows; and, in
      the Pandemonial Midnight, Egalité’s dames in tricolor drink
      lemonade, and spectrum of Sieyes mount, saying, _Death sans
      phrase_. A Convention which has effervesced, and which has
      congealed; which has been red with rage, and also pale with rage:
      sitting with pistols in its pocket, drawing sword (in a moment of
      effervescence): now storming to the four winds, through a
      Danton-voice, Awake, O France, and smite the tyrants; now frozen
      mute under its Robespierre, and answering his dirge-voice by a
      dubious gasp. Assassinated, decimated; stabbed at, shot at, in
      baths, on streets and staircases; which has been the nucleus of
      Chaos. Has it not heard the chimes at midnight? It has
      deliberated, beset by a Hundred thousand armed men with
      artillery-furnaces and provision-carts. It has been betocsined,
      bestormed; over-flooded by black deluges of Sansculottism; and
      has heard the shrill cry, _Bread and Soap_. For, as we say, its
      the nucleus of Chaos; it sat as the centre of Sansculottism; and
      had spread its pavilion on the waste Deep, where is neither path
      nor landmark, neither bottom nor shore. In intrinsic valour,
      ingenuity, fidelity, and general force and manhood, it has
      perhaps not far surpassed the average of Parliaments: but in
      frankness of purpose, in singularity of position, it seeks its
      fellow. One other Sansculottic submersion, or at most two, and
      this wearied vessel of a Convention reaches land.

      Revolt of Germinal Twelfth ended as a vain cry; moribund
      Sansculottism was swept back into invisibility. There it has lain
      moaning, these six weeks: moaning, and also scheming. Jacobins
      disarmed, flung forth from their Tribune in mid air, must needs
      try to help themselves, in secret conclave under ground. Lo,
      therefore, on the First day of the month _Prairial_, 20th of May
      1795, sound of the _générale_ once more; beating sharp, ran-tan,
      To arms, To arms!

      Sansculottism has risen, yet again, from its death-lair; waste
      wild-flowing, as the unfruitful Sea. Saint-Antoine is a-foot:
      ‘Bread and the Constitution of Ninety-three,’ so sounds it; so
      stands it written with chalk on the hats of men. They have their
      pikes, their firelocks; Paper of Grievances; standards; printed
      Proclamation, drawn up in quite official manner,—considering
      this, and also considering that, they, a much-enduring Sovereign
      People, are in Insurrection; will have Bread and the Constitution
      of Ninety-three. And so the Barriers are seized, and the
      _générale_ beats, and tocsins discourse discord. Black deluges
      overflow the Tuileries; spite of sentries, the Sanctuary itself
      is invaded: enter, to our Order of the Day, a torrent of
      dishevelled women, wailing, ‘Bread! Bread!’ President may well
      cover himself; and have his own tocsin rung in “the Pavilion of
      Unity;” the ship of the State again labours and leaks;
      overwashed, near to swamping, with unfruitful brine.

      What a day, once more! Women are driven out: men storm
      irresistibly in; choke all corridors, thunder at all gates.
      Deputies, putting forth head, obtest, conjure; Saint-Antoine
      rages, ‘Bread and Constitution.’ Report has risen that the
      “Convention is assassinating the women:” crushing and rushing,
      clangor and furor! The oak doors have become as oak tambourines,
      sounding under the axe of Saint-Antoine; plaster-work crackles,
      woodwork booms and jingles; door starts up;—bursts-in
      Saint-Antoine with frenzy and vociferation, Rag-standards,
      printed Proclamation, drum-music: astonishment to eye and ear.
      Gendarmes, loyal Sectioners charge through the other door; they
      are recharged; musketry exploding: Saint-Antoine cannot be
      expelled. Obtesting Deputies obtest vainly; Respect the
      President; approach not the President! Deputy Féraud, stretching
      out his hands, baring his bosom scarred in the Spanish wars,
      obtests vainly: threatens and resists vainly. Rebellious Deputy
      of the Sovereign, if thou have fought, have not we too? We have
      no bread, no Constitution! They wrench poor Féraud; they tumble
      him, trample him, wrath waxing to see itself work: they drag him
      into the corridor, dead or near it; sever his head, and fix it on
      a pike. Ah, did an unexampled Convention want this variety of
      destiny too, then? Féraud’s bloody head goes on a pike. Such a
      game has begun; Paris and the Earth may wait how it will end.

      And so it billows free though all Corridors; within, and without,
      far as the eye reaches, nothing but Bedlam, and the great Deep
      broken loose! President Boissy d’Anglas sits like a rock: the
      rest of the Convention is floated “to the upper benches;”
      Sectioners and Gendarmes still ranking there to form a kind of
      wall for them. And Insurrection rages; rolls its drums; will read
      its Paper of Grievances, will have this decreed, will have that.
      Covered sits President Boissy, unyielding; like a rock in the
      beating of seas. They menace him, level muskets at him, he yields
      not; they hold up Féraud’s bloody head to him, with grave stern
      air he bows to it, and yields not.

      And the Paper of Grievances cannot get itself read for uproar;
      and the drums roll, and the throats bawl; and Insurrection, like
      sphere-music, is inaudible for very noise: Decree us this, Decree
      us that. One man we discern bawling “for the space of an hour at
      all intervals,” ‘_Je demande l’arrestation des coquins et des
      lâches_.’ Really one of the most comprehensive Petitions ever put
      up: which indeed, to this hour, includes all that you can
      reasonably ask Constitution of the Year One, Rotten-Borough,
      Ballot-Box, or other miraculous Political Ark of the Covenant to
      do for you to the end of the world! I also _demand arrestment of
      the Knaves and Dastards_, and nothing more whatever. National
      Representation, deluged with black Sansculottism glides out; for
      help elsewhere, for safety elsewhere: here is no help.

      About four in the afternoon, there remain hardly more than some
      Sixty Members: mere friends, or even secret-leaders; a remnant of
      the Mountain-crest, held in silence by Thermidorian thraldom. Now
      is the time for them; now or never let them descend, and speak!
      They descend, these Sixty, invited by Sansculottism: Romme of the
      New Calendar, Ruhl of the Sacred Phial, Goujon, Duquesnoy,
      Soubrany, and the rest. Glad Sansculottism forms a ring for them;
      Romme takes the President’s chair; they begin resolving and
      decreeing. Fast enough now comes Decree after Decree, in
      alternate brief strains, or strophe and antistrophe,—what will
      cheapen bread, what will awaken the dormant lion. And at every
      new Decree, Sansculottism shouts, Decreed, Decreed; and rolls its
      drums.

      Fast enough; the work of months in hours,—when see, a Figure
      enters, whom in the lamp-light we recognise to be Legendre; and
      utters words: fit to be hissed out! And then see, Section
      Lepelletier or other Muscadin Section enters, and Gilt Youth,
      with levelled bayonets, countenances screwed to the
      sticking-place! Tramp, tramp, with bayonets gleaming in the
      lamp-light: what can one do, worn down with long riot, grown
      heartless, dark, hungry, but roll back, but rush back, and escape
      who can? The very windows need to be thrown up, that
      Sansculottism may escape fast enough. Money-changer Sections and
      Gilt Youth sweep them forth, with steel besom, far into the
      depths of Saint-Antoine. Triumph once more! The Decrees of that
      Sixty are not so much as rescinded; they are declared null and
      non-extant. Romme, Ruhl, Goujon and the ringleaders, some
      thirteen in all, are decreed Accused. Permanent-session ends at
      three in the morning.[775] Sansculottism, once more flung
      resupine, lies sprawling; sprawling its _last_.

      Such was the First of Prairial, 20th May, 1795. Second and Third
      of Prairial, during which Sansculottism still sprawled, and
      unexpectedly rang its tocsin, and assembled in arms, availed
      Sansculottism nothing. What though with our Rommes and Ruhls,
      accused but not yet arrested, we make a new “True National
      Convention” of our own, over in the East; and put the others Out
      of Law? What though we rank in arms and march? Armed Force and
      Muscadin Sections, some thirty thousand men, environ that old
      False Convention: we can but bully one another: bandying
      nicknames, ‘_Muscadins_,’ against ‘Blooddrinkers, _Buveurs de
      Sang_.’ Féraud’s Assassin, taken with the red hand, and
      sentenced, and now near to Guillotine and Place de Grève, is
      retaken; is carried back into Saint-Antoine: to no purpose.
      Convention Sectionaries and Gilt Youth come, according to Decree,
      to seek him; nay to disarm Saint-Antoine! And they do disarm it:
      by rolling of cannon, by springing upon enemy’s cannon; by
      military audacity, and terror of the Law. Saint-Antoine
      surrenders its arms; Santerre even advising it, anxious for life
      and brewhouse. Féraud’s Assassin flings himself from a high roof:
      and all is lost.[776]

      Discerning which things, old Ruhl shot a pistol through his old
      white head; dashed his life in pieces, as he had done the Sacred
      Phial of Rheims. Romme, Goujon and the others stand ranked before
      a swiftly-appointed, swift Military Tribunal. Hearing the
      sentence, Goujon drew a knife, struck it into his breast, passed
      it to his neighbour Romme; and fell dead. Romme did the like; and
      another all but did it; Roman-death rushing on there, as in
      electric-chain, before your Bailiffs could intervene! The
      Guillotine had the rest.

      They were the _Ultimi Romanorum_. Billaud, Collot and Company are
      now ordered to be tried for life; but are found to be already
      off, shipped for Sinamarri, and the hot mud of Surinam. There let
      Billaud surround himself with flocks of tame parrots; Collot take
      the yellow fever, and drinking a whole bottle of brandy, burn up
      his entrails.[777] Sansculottism spraws no more. The dormant lion
      has become a dead one; and now, as we see, any hoof may smite
      him.


      Chapter 3.7.VI.
      Grilled Herrings.

      So dies Sansculottism, the _body_ of Sansculottism, or is
      changed. Its ragged Pythian Carmagnole-dance has transformed
      itself into a Pyrrhic, into a dance of Cabarus Balls.
      Sansculottism is dead; extinguished by new _isms_ of that kind,
      which were its own natural progeny; and is buried, we may say,
      with such deafening jubilation and disharmony of funeral-knell on
      their part, that only after some half century or so does one
      begin to learn clearly why it ever was alive.

      And yet a meaning lay in it: Sansculottism verily was alive, a
      New-Birth of TIME; nay it still lives, and is not dead, but
      changed. The _soul_ of it still lives; still works far and wide,
      through one bodily shape into another less amorphous, as is the
      way of cunning Time with his New-Births:—till, in some perfected
      shape, it embrace the whole circuit of the world! For the wise
      man may now everywhere discern that he must found on his manhood,
      not on the garnitures of his manhood. He who, in these Epochs of
      our Europe, founds on garnitures, formulas, culottisms of what
      sort soever, is founding on old cloth and sheep-skin, and cannot
      endure. But as for the body of Sansculottism, that is dead and
      buried,—and, one hopes, need not reappear, in primary amorphous
      shape, for another thousand years!

      It was the frightfullest thing ever borne of Time? One of the
      frightfullest. This Convention, now grown Anti-Jacobin, did, with
      an eye to justify and fortify itself, publish Lists of what the
      Reign of Terror had perpetrated: Lists of Persons Guillotined.
      The Lists, cries splenetic Abbé Montgaillard, were not complete.
      They contain the names of, How many persons thinks the
      reader?—Two Thousand all but a few. There were above Four
      Thousand, cries Montgaillard: so many were guillotined,
      fusilladed, noyaded, done to dire death; of whom Nine Hundred
      were women.[778] It is a horrible sum of human lives, M.
      l’Abbé:—some ten times as many shot rightly on a field of battle,
      and one might have had his Glorious-Victory with _Te-Deum_. It is
      not far from the two-hundredth part of what perished in the
      entire Seven Years War. By which Seven Years War, did not the
      great Fritz wrench Silesia from the great Theresa; and a
      Pompadour, stung by epigrams, satisfy herself that she could not
      be an Agnes Sorel? The head of man is a strange vacant
      sounding-shell, M. l’Abbé; and studies Cocker to small purpose.

      But what if History, somewhere on this Planet, were to hear of a
      Nation, the third soul of whom had not for thirty weeks each year
      as many third-rate potatoes as would sustain him?[779] History,
      in that case, feels bound to consider that starvation is
      starvation; that starvation from age to age presupposes much:
      History ventures to assert that the French Sansculotte of
      Ninety-three, who, roused from long death-sleep, could rush at
      once to the frontiers, and die fighting for an immortal Hope and
      Faith of Deliverance for him and his, was but the
      _second_-miserablest of men! The Irish Sans-potato, had he not
      senses then, nay a soul? In his frozen darkness, it was bitter
      for him to die famishing; bitter to see his children famish. It
      was bitter for him to be a beggar, a liar and a knave. Nay, if
      that dreary Greenland-wind of benighted Want, perennial from sire
      to son, had frozen him into a kind of torpor and numb callosity,
      so that he saw not, felt not, was this, for a creature with a
      soul in it, some assuagement; or the cruellest wretchedness of
      all?

      Such things were, such things are; and they go on in silence
      peaceably: and Sansculottisms follow them. History, looking back
      over this France through long times, back to Turgot’s time for
      instance, when dumb Drudgery staggered up to its King’s Palace,
      and in wide expanse of sallow faces, squalor and winged
      raggedness, presented hieroglyphically its Petition of
      Grievances; and for answer got hanged on a “new gallows forty
      feet high,”—confesses mournfully that there is no period to be
      met with, in which the general Twenty-five Millions of France
      suffered _less_ than in this period which they name Reign of
      Terror! But it was not the Dumb Millions that suffered here; it
      was the Speaking Thousands, and Hundreds, and Units; who shrieked
      and published, and made the world ring with their wail, as they
      could and should: that is the grand peculiarity. The
      frightfullest Births of Time are never the loud-speaking ones,
      for these soon die; they are the silent ones, which can live from
      century to century! Anarchy, hateful as Death, is abhorrent to
      the whole nature of man; and must itself soon die.

      Wherefore let all men know what of depth and of height is still
      revealed in man; and, with fear and wonder, with just sympathy
      and just antipathy, with clear eye and open heart, contemplate it
      and appropriate it; and draw innumerable inferences from it. This
      inference, for example, among the first: “That if the gods of
      this lower world will sit on their glittering thrones, indolent
      as Epicurus’ gods, with the living Chaos of Ignorance and Hunger
      weltering uncared for at their feet, and smooth Parasites
      preaching, Peace, peace, when there is no peace,” then the dark
      Chaos, it would seem, will rise; has risen, and O Heavens! has it
      not tanned their skins into breeches for itself? That there be no
      second Sansculottism in our Earth for a thousand years, let us
      understand well what the first was; and let Rich and Poor of us
      go and do _otherwise_.—But to our tale.

      The Muscadin Sections greatly rejoice; Cabarus Balls gyrate: the
      well-nigh insoluble problem _Republic without Anarchy_, have we
      not solved it?—Law of Fraternity or Death is gone: chimerical
      _Obtain-who-need_ has become practical _Hold-who-have_. To
      anarchic Republic of the Poverties there has succeeded orderly
      Republic of the Luxuries; which will continue as long as it can.

      On the Pont au Change, on the Place de Grève, in long sheds,
      Mercier, in these summer evenings, saw working men at their
      repast. One’s allotment of daily bread has sunk to an ounce and a
      half. “Plates containing each three grilled herrings, sprinkled
      with shorn onions, wetted with a little vinegar; to this add some
      morsel of boiled prunes, and lentils swimming in a clear sauce:
      at these frugal tables, the cook’s gridiron hissing near by, and
      the pot simmering on a fire between two stones, I have seen them
      ranged by the hundred; consuming, without bread, their scant
      messes, far too moderate for the keenness of their appetite, and
      the extent of their stomach.”[780] Seine water, rushing plenteous
      by, will supply the deficiency.

      O man of Toil, thy struggling and thy daring, these six long
      years of insurrection and tribulation, thou hast profited nothing
      by it, then? Thou consumest thy herring and water, in the blessed
      gold-red evening. O why was the Earth so beautiful, becrimsoned
      with dawn and twilight, if man’s dealings with man were to make
      it a vale of scarcity, of tears, not even soft tears? Destroying
      of Bastilles, discomfiting of Brunswicks, fronting of
      Principalities and Powers, of Earth and Tophet, all that thou
      hast dared and endured,—it was for a Republic of the Cabarus
      Saloons? Patience; thou must have patience: the end is not yet.


      Chapter 3.7.VII.
      The Whiff of Grapeshot.

      In fact, what can be more natural, one may say inevitable, as a
      Post-Sansculottic transitionary state, than even this? Confused
      wreck of a Republic of the Poverties, which ended in Reign of
      Terror, is arranging itself into such composure as it can.
      Evangel of Jean-Jacques, and most other Evangels, becoming
      incredible, what is there for it but return to the old Evangel of
      Mammon? _Contrat-Social_ is true or untrue, Brotherhood is
      Brotherhood or Death; but money always will buy money’s worth: in
      the wreck of human dubitations, this remains indubitable, that
      Pleasure is pleasant. Aristocracy of Feudal Parchment has passed
      away with a mighty rushing; and now, by a natural course, we
      arrive at Aristocracy of the Moneybag. It is the course through
      which all European Societies are at this hour travelling.
      Apparently a still baser sort of Aristocracy? An infinitely
      baser; the basest yet known!

      In which however there is this advantage, that, like Anarchy
      itself, it cannot continue. Hast thou considered how Thought is
      stronger than Artillery-parks, and (were it fifty years after
      death and martyrdom, or were it two thousand years) writes and
      unwrites Acts of Parliament, removes mountains; models the World
      like soft clay? Also how the beginning of all Thought, worth the
      name, is Love; and the wise head never yet was, without first the
      generous heart? The Heavens cease not their bounty: they send us
      generous hearts into every generation. And now what generous
      heart can pretend to itself, or be hoodwinked into believing,
      that Loyalty to the Moneybag is a noble Loyalty? Mammon, cries
      the generous heart out of all ages and countries, is the basest
      of known Gods, even of known Devils. In him what glory is there,
      that ye should worship him? No glory discernable; not even
      terror: at best, detestability, ill-matched with
      despicability!—Generous hearts, discerning, on this hand,
      widespread Wretchedness, dark without and within, moistening its
      ounce-and-half of bread with tears; and on that hand, mere Balls
      in fleshcoloured drawers, and inane or foul glitter of such
      sort,—cannot but ejaculate, cannot but announce: Too much, O
      divine Mammon; somewhat too much!—The voice of these, once
      announcing itself, carries _fiat_ and _pereat_ in it, for all
      things here below.

      Meanwhile, we will hate Anarchy as Death, which it is; and the
      things worse than Anarchy shall be hated _more._ Surely Peace
      alone is fruitful. Anarchy is destruction: a burning up, say, of
      Shams and Insupportabilities; but which leaves Vacancy behind.
      Know this also, that out of a world of Unwise nothing but an
      Unwisdom can be made. Arrange it, Constitution-build it, sift it
      through Ballot-Boxes as thou wilt, it is and remains an
      Unwisdom,—the new prey of new quacks and unclean things, the
      latter end of it slightly better than the beginning. Who can
      bring a wise thing out of men unwise? Not one. And so Vacancy and
      general Abolition having come for this France, what can Anarchy
      do more? Let there be Order, were it under the Soldier’s Sword;
      let there be Peace, that the bounty of the Heavens be not spilt;
      that what of Wisdom they do send us bring fruit in its season!—It
      remains to be seen how the quellers of Sansculottism were
      themselves quelled, and sacred right of Insurrection was blown
      away by gunpowder: wherewith this singular eventful History
      called _French Revolution_ ends.

      The Convention, driven such a course by wild wind, wild tide, and
      steerage and non-steerage, these three years, has become weary of
      its own existence, sees all men weary of it; and wishes heartily
      to finish. To the last, it has to strive with contradictions: it
      is now getting fast ready with a Constitution, yet knows no
      peace. Sieyes, we say, is making the Constitution once more; has
      as good as made it. Warned by experience, the great Architect
      alters much, admits much. Distinction of Active and Passive
      Citizen, that is, Money-qualification for Electors: nay Two
      Chambers, “Council of Ancients,” as well as “Council of Five
      Hundred;” to that conclusion have we come! In a like spirit,
      eschewing that fatal self-denying ordinance of your Old
      Constituents, we enact not only that actual Convention Members
      are re-eligible, but that Two-thirds of them must be re-elected.
      The Active Citizen Electors shall for this time have free choice
      of only One-third of their National Assembly. Such enactment, of
      Two-thirds to be re-elected, we append to our Constitution; we
      submit our Constitution to the Townships of France, and say,
      Accept _both_, or reject both. Unsavoury as this appendix may be,
      the Townships, by overwhelming majority, accept and ratify. With
      Directory of Five; with Two good Chambers, double-majority of
      them nominated by ourselves, one hopes this Constitution may
      prove final. _March_ it will; for the legs of it, the re-elected
      Two-thirds, are already there, able to march. Sieyes looks at his
      Paper Fabric with just pride.

      But now see how the contumacious Sections, Lepelletier foremost,
      kick against the pricks! Is it not manifest infraction of one’s
      Elective Franchise, Rights of Man, and Sovereignty of the People,
      this appendix of re-electing _your_ Two-thirds? Greedy tyrants
      who would perpetuate yourselves!—For the truth is, victory over
      Saint-Antoine, and long right of Insurrection, has spoiled these
      men. Nay spoiled all men. Consider too how each man was free to
      hope what he liked; and now there is to be no hope, there is to
      be fruition, fruition of _this_.

      In men spoiled by long right of Insurrection, what confused
      ferments will rise, tongues once begun wagging! Journalists
      declaim, your Lacretelles, Laharpes; Orators spout. There is
      Royalism traceable in it, and Jacobinism. On the West Frontier,
      in deep secrecy, Pichegru, durst he trust his Army, is treating
      with Condé: in these Sections, there spout wolves in sheep’s
      clothing, masked Emigrants and Royalists![781] All men, as we
      say, had hoped, each that the Election would do something for his
      own side: and now there is no Election, or only the third of one.
      Black is united with white against this clause of the Two-thirds;
      all the Unruly of France, who see their trade thereby near
      ending.

      Section Lepelletier, after Addresses enough, finds that such
      clause is a manifest infraction; that it, Lepelletier, for one,
      will simply not conform thereto; and invites all other free
      Sections to join it, “in central Committee,” in resistance to
      oppression.[782] The Sections join it, nearly all; strong with
      their Forty Thousand fighting men. The Convention therefore may
      look to itself! Lepelletier, on this 12th day of Vendémiaire, 4th
      of October 1795, is sitting in open contravention, in its Convent
      of Filles Saint-Thomas, Rue Vivienne, with guns primed. The
      Convention has some Five Thousand regular troops at hand;
      Generals in abundance; and a Fifteen Hundred of miscellaneous
      persecuted Ultra-Jacobins, whom in this crisis it has hastily got
      together and armed, under the title _Patriots of Eighty-nine_.
      Strong in Law, it sends its General Menou to disarm Lepelletier.

      General Menou marches accordingly, with due summons and
      demonstration; with no result. General Menou, about eight in the
      evening, finds that he is standing ranked in the Rue Vivienne,
      emitting vain summonses; with primed guns pointed out of every
      window at him; and that he cannot disarm Lepelletier. He has to
      return, with whole skin, but without success; and be thrown into
      arrest as “a traitor.” Whereupon the whole Forty Thousand join
      this Lepelletier which cannot be vanquished: to what hand shall a
      quaking Convention now turn? Our poor Convention, after such
      voyaging, just entering harbour, so to speak, has _struck on the
      bar;_—and labours there frightfully, with breakers roaring round
      it, Forty thousand of them, like to wash it, and its Sieyes Cargo
      and the whole future of France, into the deep! Yet one last time,
      it struggles, ready to perish.

      Some call for Barras to be made Commandant; he conquered in
      Thermidor. Some, what is more to the purpose, bethink them of the
      Citizen Buonaparte, unemployed Artillery Officer, who took
      Toulon. A man of head, a man of action: Barras is named
      Commandant’s-Cloak; this young Artillery Officer is named
      Commandant. He was in the Gallery at the moment, and heard it; he
      withdrew, some half hour, to consider with himself: after a half
      hour of grim compressed considering, to be or not to be, he
      answers _Yea_.

      And now, a man of head being at the centre of it, the whole
      matter gets vital. Swift, to Camp of Sablons; to secure the
      Artillery, there are not twenty men guarding it! A swift
      Adjutant, Murat is the name of him, gallops; gets thither some
      minutes within time, for Lepelletier was also on march that way:
      the Cannon are ours. And now beset this post, and beset that;
      rapid and firm: at Wicket of the Louvre, in Cul de Sac Dauphin,
      in Rue Saint-Honoré, from Pont Neuf all along the north Quays,
      southward to Pont _ci-devant_ Royal,—rank round the Sanctuary of
      the Tuileries, a ring of steel discipline; let every gunner have
      his match burning, and all men stand to their arms!

      Thus there is Permanent-session through night; and thus at
      sunrise of the morrow, there is seen sacred Insurrection once
      again: vessel of State labouring on the bar; and tumultuous sea
      all round her, beating _générale_, arming and sounding,—not
      ringing tocsin, for we have left no tocsin but our own in the
      Pavilion of Unity. It is an imminence of shipwreck, for the whole
      world to gaze at. Frightfully she labours, that poor ship, within
      cable-length of port; huge peril for her. However, she has a man
      at the helm. Insurgent messages, received, and not received;
      messenger admitted blindfolded; counsel and counter-counsel: the
      poor ship labours!—Vendémiaire 13th, year 4: curious enough, of
      all days, it is the Fifth day of October, anniversary of that
      Menad-march, six years ago; by sacred right of Insurrection we
      are got thus far.

      Lepelletier has seized the Church of Saint-Roch; has seized the
      Pont Neuf, our piquet there retreating without fire. Stray shots
      fall from Lepelletier; rattle down on the very Tuileries
      staircase. On the other hand, women advance dishevelled,
      shrieking, Peace; Lepelletier behind them waving its hat in sign
      that we shall fraternise. Steady! The Artillery Officer is steady
      as bronze; can be quick as lightning. He sends eight hundred
      muskets with ball-cartridges to the Convention itself; honourable
      Members shall act with these in case of extremity: whereat they
      look grave enough. Four of the afternoon is struck.[783]
      Lepelletier, making nothing by messengers, by fraternity or
      hat-waving, bursts out, along the Southern Quai Voltaire, along
      streets, and passages, treble-quick, in huge veritable onslaught!
      Whereupon, thou bronze Artillery Officer—? ‘Fire!’ say the bronze
      lips. Roar and again roar, continual, volcano-like, goes his
      great gun, in the Cul de Sac Dauphin against the Church of
      Saint-Roch; go his great guns on the Pont Royal; go all his great
      guns;—blow to air some two hundred men, mainly about the Church
      of Saint-Roch! Lepelletier cannot stand such horse-play; no
      Sectioner can stand it; the Forty-thousand yield on all sides,
      scour towards covert. “Some hundred or so of them gathered both
      Theatre de la République; but,” says he, “a few shells dislodged
      them. It was all finished at six.”

      The Ship is _over_ the bar, then; free she bounds shoreward,—amid
      shouting and vivats! Citoyen Buonaparte is “named General of the
      Interior, by acclamation;” quelled Sections have to disarm in
      such humour as they may; sacred right of Insurrection is gone for
      ever! The Sieyes Constitution can disembark itself, and begin
      marching. The miraculous Convention Ship has got to land;—and is
      there, shall we figuratively say, changed, as Epic Ships are
      wont, into a kind of _Sea Nymph_, never to sail more; to roam the
      waste Azure, a Miracle in History!

      “It is false,” says Napoleon, “that we fired first with blank
      charge; it had been a waste of life to do that.” Most false: the
      firing was with sharp and sharpest shot: to all men it was plain
      that here was no sport; the rabbets and plinths of Saint-Roch
      Church show splintered by it, to this hour.—Singular: in old
      Broglie’s time, six years ago, this Whiff of Grapeshot was
      promised; but it could not be given then, could not have profited
      then. Now, however, the time is come for it, and the man; and
      behold, you have it; and the thing we specifically call _French
      Revolution_ is blown into space by it, and become a thing that
      was!—


      Chapter 3.7.VIII.
      Finis.

      Homer’s Epos, it is remarked, is like a Bas-relief sculpture: it
      does not conclude, but merely ceases. Such, indeed, is the Epos
      of Universal History itself. Directorates, Consulates,
      Emperorships, Restorations, Citizen-Kingships succeed this
      Business in due series, in due genesis one out of the other.
      Nevertheless the First-parent of all these may be said to have
      gone to air in the way we see. A Baboeuf Insurrection, next year,
      will die in the birth; stifled by the Soldiery. A Senate, if
      tinged with Royalism, can be purged by the Soldiery; and an
      Eighteenth of Fructidor transacted by the mere shew of
      bayonets.[784] Nay Soldiers’ bayonets can be used _à posteriori_
      on a Senate, and make it leap out of window,—still bloodless; and
      produce an Eighteenth of Brumaire.[785] Such changes must happen:
      but they are managed by intriguings, caballings, and then by
      orderly word of command; almost like mere changes of Ministry.
      Not in general by sacred right of Insurrection, but by milder
      methods growing ever milder, shall the Events of French history
      be henceforth brought to pass.

      It is admitted that this Directorate, which owned, at its
      starting, these three things, an “old table, a sheet of paper,
      and an ink-bottle,” and no visible money or arrangement
      whatever,[786] did wonders: that France, since the Reign of
      Terror hushed itself, has been a new France, awakened like a
      giant out of torpor; and has gone on, in the Internal Life of it,
      with continual progress. As for the External form and forms of
      Life,—what can we say except that out of the Eater there comes
      Strength; out of the Unwise there comes _not_ Wisdom! Shams are
      burnt up; nay, what as yet is the peculiarity of France, the very
      Cant of them is burnt up. The new Realities are not yet come: ah
      no, only Phantasms, Paper models, tentative Prefigurements of
      such! In France there are now Four Million Landed Properties;
      that black portent of an Agrarian Law is as it were _realised._
      What is still stranger, we understand all Frenchmen have “the
      right of duel;” the Hackney-coachman with the Peer, if insult be
      given: such is the law of Public Opinion. Equality at least in
      death! The Form of Government is by Citizen King, frequently shot
      at, not yet shot.

      On the whole, therefore, has it not been fulfilled what was
      prophesied, _ex-postfacto_ indeed, by the Archquack Cagliostro,
      or another? He, as he looked in rapt vision and amazement into
      these things, thus spake:[787] “Ha! What is _this?_ Angels,
      Uriel, Anachiel, and the other Five; Pentagon of Rejuvenescence;
      Power that destroyed Original Sin; Earth, Heaven, and thou Outer
      Limbo, which men name Hell! Does the EMPIRE Of IMPOSTURE waver?
      Burst there, in starry sheen updarting, Light-rays from out _its_
      dark foundations; as it rocks and heaves, not in travail-throes,
      but in death-throes? Yea, Light-rays, piercing, clear, that
      salute the Heavens,—lo, they _kindle_ it; their starry clearness
      becomes as red Hellfire!

      “IMPOSTURE is in flames, Imposture is burnt up: one red sea of
      Fire, wild-billowing enwraps the World; with its fire-tongue,
      licks at the very Stars. Thrones are hurled into it, and Dubois
      mitres, and Prebendal Stalls that drop fatness, and—ha! what see
      I?—all the _Gigs_ of Creation; all, all! Wo is me! Never since
      Pharaoh’s Chariots, in the Red-sea of water, was there wreck of
      Wheel-vehicles like this in the Sea of Fire. Desolate, as ashes,
      as gases, shall they wander in the wind.

      Higher, higher yet flames the Fire-Sea; crackling with new
      dislocated timber; hissing with leather and prunella. The metal
      Images are molten; the marble Images become mortar-lime; the
      stone Mountains sulkily explode. RESPECTABILITY, with all her
      collected Gigs inflamed for funeral pyre, wailing, leaves the
      earth: not to return save under new Avatar. Imposture, how it
      burns, through generations: how it is burnt up; for a time. The
      World is black ashes; which, ah, when will they grow green? The
      Images all run into amorphous Corinthian brass; all Dwellings of
      men destroyed; the very mountains peeled and riven, the valleys
      black and dead: it is an empty World! Wo to them that shall be
      born then!—A King, a Queen (ah me!) were hurled in; did rustle
      once; flew aloft, crackling, like paper-scroll. Iscariot Egalité
      was hurled in; thou grim De Launay, with thy grim Bastille; whole
      kindreds and peoples; five millions of mutually destroying Men.
      For it is the End of the Dominion of IMPOSTURE (which is Darkness
      and opaque Firedamp); and the burning up, with unquenchable fire,
      of all the Gigs that are in the Earth.” This Prophecy, we say,
      has it not been fulfilled, is it not fulfilling?

      And so here, O Reader, has the time come for us two to part.
      Toilsome was our journeying together; not without offence; but it
      is done. To me thou wert as a beloved shade, the disembodied or
      not yet embodied spirit of a Brother. To thee I was but as a
      Voice. Yet was our relation a kind of sacred one; doubt not that!
      Whatsoever once sacred things become hollow jargons, yet while
      the Voice of Man speaks with Man, hast thou not there the living
      fountain out of which all sacrednesses sprang, and will yet
      spring? Man, by the nature of him, is definable as “an incarnated
      Word.” Ill stands it with me if I have spoken falsely: thine also
      it was to hear truly. Farewell.


      INDEX.

      ABBAYE, massacres, Jourgniac, Sicard, and Maton’s account of.

      ACCEPTATION, grande, by Louis XVI.

      AGOUST, Captain d’, seizes two Parlementeers.

      AIGUILLON, d’, at Quiberon, account of, in favour, at death of
      Louis XV.

      AINTRIGUES, Count d’.

      ALTAR of Fatherland in Champ-de-Mars, scene at, christening at.

      AMIRAL, assassin, guillotined.

      ANGLAS, Boissy d’, President, First of Prairial.

      ANGOULEME, Duchesse d’, parts from her father.

      ANGREMONT, Collenot d’, guillotined.

      ANTOINETTE, Marie, splendour of, applauded, compromised by
      Diamond Necklace, griefs of, weeps, unpopular, at Dinner of
      Guards, courage of, Fifth October, at Versailles, shows herself
      to people, and Louis at Tuileries, and the Lorrainer, and
      Mirabeau, previous to flight, flight from Tuileries, captured,
      and Barnave, Coblentz intrigues, and Lamotte’s Mémoires, during
      Twentieth June, during Tenth August, as captive, and Princess de
      Lamballe, in Temple Prison, parting scene with King, to the
      Conciergerie, trial of, guillotined.

      ARGONNE Forest, occupied by Dumouriez, Brunswick at.

      ARISTOCRATS, officers in French army, number in Paris, seized,
      condition in 1794.

      ARLES, state of.

      ARMS, smiths making, search for, at Charleville, manufacture, in
      1794, scarcity in 1792, Danton’s search for.

      ARMY, French, after Bastille, officered by aristocrats, to be
      disbanded, demands arrears, general mutiny of, outbreak of, Nanci
      military executions, Royalists leave, state of, in want,
      recruited, Revolutionary, fourteen armies on foot.

      ARRAS, guillotine at.

      ARRESTS in August 1792.

      ARSENAL, attempted destruction of.

      ARTOIS, M. d’, ways of, unpopularity of, memorial by, flies, at
      Coblentz, refusal to return.

      ASSEMBLIES, Primary and Secondary.

      ASSEMBLY, National, Third Estate becomes, to be extruded, stands
      grouped in the rain, occupies Tennis-Court, scene there, joined
      by clergy, doings on King’s speech, ratified by King, cannon
      pointed at, regrets Necker, after Bastille.

      ASSEMBLY, Constituent, National, becomes, pedantic, Irregular
      Verbs, what it can do, Night of Pentecost, Left and Right side,
      raises money, on the Veto, Fifth October, women, in Paris
      Riding-Hall, on deficit, assignats, on clergy, and riot, prepares
      for Louis’s visit, on Federation, Anacharsis Clootz, eldest of
      men, on Franklin’s death, on state of army, thanks Bouillé, on
      Nanci affair, on Emigrants, on death of Mirabeau, on escape of
      King, after capture of King, completes Constitution, dissolves
      itself, what it has done.

      ASSEMBLY, Legislative, First French Parliament, book of law,
      dispute with King, Baiser de Lamourette, High Court, decrees
      vetoed, scenes in, reprimands King’s ministers, declares war,
      declares France in danger, reinstates Pétion, nonplused,
      Lafayette, King and Swiss, August Tenth, becoming defunct,
      September massacres, dissolved.

      ASSIGNATS, origin of, false Royalist, forgers of, coach-fare in.

      AUBRIOT, Sieur, after King’s capture.

      AUBRY, Colonel, at Jalès.

      AUCH, M. Martin d’, in Versailles Court.

      AUSTRIA quarrels with France.

      AUSTRIAN Committee, at Tuileries.

      AUSTRIAN Army, invades France, defeated at Jemappes, Dumouriez
      escapes to, repulsed, Watigny.

      AVIGNON, Union of, described, state of, riot in church at,
      occupied by Jourdan, massacre at.

      BACHAUMONT, his thirty volumes.

      BAILLE, involuntary epigram of.

      BAILLY, Astronomer, account of, President of National Assembly,
      Mayor of Paris, receives Louis in Paris, and Paris Parlement, on
      Petition for Deposition, decline of, in prison, at Queen’s trial,
      guillotined cruelly.

      BAKERS’, French in tail at.

      BARBAROUX and Marat, Marseilles Deputy, and the Rolands, on Map
      of France, demand of, to Marseilles, meets Marseillese, in
      National Convention, against Robespierre, cannot be heard, the
      Girondins declining, arrested, and Charlotte Corday, retreats to
      Bourdeaux, farewell of, shoots himself.

      BARDY, Abbé, massacred.

      BARENTIN, Keeper of Seals.

      BARNAVE, at Grenoble, member of Assembly, one of a trio, Jacobin,
      duel with Cazalès, escorts the King from Varennes, conciliates
      Queen, becomes Constitutional, retires to Grenoble, treason, in
      prison, guillotined.

      BARRAS, Paul-François, in National Convention, commands in
      Thermidor, appoints Napoleon in Vendémiaire.

      BARRERE, Editor, at King’s trial, peace-maker, levy in mass,
      plot, banished.

      BARTHOLOMEW massacre.

      BASTILLE, Linguet’s Book on, meaning of, shots fired at, summoned
      by insurgents, besieged, capitulates, treatment of captured,
      Queret-Demery, demolished, key sent to Washington, Heroes.

      BAZIRE, of Mountain, imprisoned.

      BEARN, riot at.

      BEAUHARNAIS in Champ-de-Mars, Josephine, imprisoned, and
      Napoleon, at La Cabarus’s.

      BEAUMARCHAIS, Caron, his lawsuit, his “Mariage de Figaro,”
      commissions arms from Holland, his distress.

      BEAUMONT, Archbishop, notice of.

      BEAUREPAIRE, Governor of Verdun, shoots himself.

      BENTHAM, Jeremy, naturalised.

      BERLINE, towards Varennes.

      BERTHIER, Intendant, fled, arrested and massacred.

      BERTHIER, Commandant, at Versailles.

      BESENVAL, Baron, Commandant of Paris, on French Finance, in riot
      of Rue St. Antoine, on corruption of Guards, at Champ-de-Mars,
      apparition to, decamps, and Louis XVI.

      BETHUNE, riot at.

      BEURNONVILLE, with Dumouriez, imprisoned.

      BILLAUD-VARENNES, Jacobin, cruel, at massacres, September 1792,
      in Salut Committee, and Robespierre’s Être Suprême, accuses
      Robespierre, accused, banished.

      BLANC, Le, landlord at Varennes, escape of family.

      BLOOD, baths of.

      BONCHAMPS, in La Vendée War.

      BONNEMERE, Aubin, at Siege of Bastille.

      BOUILLE, at Metz, account of, character of, troops mutinous, and
      Salm regiment, intrepidity of, marches on Nanci, quells Nanci
      mutineers, at Mirabeau’s funeral, expects fugitive King, would
      liberate King, emigrates.

      BOUILLE, Junior, asleep at Varennes, flies to father.

      BOURDEAUX, priests hanged at, for Girondism.

      BOYER, duellist.

      BREST, sailors revolt, state of, in 1791, Fédérés in Paris, in
      1793.

      BRETEUIL, Home-Secretary.

      BRETON Club, germ of Jacobins.

      BRETONS, deputations of, Girondins.

      BREZE, Marquis de, his mode of ushering, and National Assembly,
      extraordinary etiquette.

      BRIENNE, Loménie, anti-protestant, in Notables, incapacity of,
      failure of, arrests Paris Parlement, secret scheme, scheme
      discovered, arrests two Parlementeers, bewildered, desperate
      shifts by, wishes for Necker, dismissed, and provided for, his
      effigy burnt.

      BRISSAC, Duke de, commands Constitutional Guard, disbanded.

      BRISSOT, edits “Moniteur,” friend of Blacks, in First Parliament,
      plans in 1792, active in Assembly, in Jacobins, at Roland’s,
      pelted in Assembly, arrested, trial of, guillotined.

      BRITTANY, disturbances in.

      BROGLIE, Marshal, against Plenary Court, in command, in office,
      dismissed.

      BRUNSWICK, Duke, marches on France, advances, Proclamation, at
      Verdun, at Argonne, retreats.

      BUFFON, Mme. de, and Duke d’Orléans, at d’Orléans execution.

      BUTTAFUOCO, Napoleon’s letter to.

      BUZOT, in National Convention, arrested, retreats to Bourdeaux,
      end of.

      CABANIS, Physician to Mirabeau.

      CABARUS, Mlle., and Tallien, imprisoned.

      CAEN, Girondins at.

      CALENDAR, Romme’s new, comparative ground-scheme of.

      CALONNE, M. de, Financier, character of, suavity and genius of,
      his difficulties, dismissed, marriage and after-course.

      CALVADOS, for Girondism.

      CAMUS, Archivist, in National Convention, with Dumouriez,
      imprisoned.

      CANNON, Siamese, wooden, fever, Goethe on.

      CARMAGNOLE, costume, what, dances in Convention.

      CARNOT, Hippolyte, notice of, plan for Toulon, discovery in
      Robespierre’s pocket.

      CARPENTRAS, against Avignon.

      CARRA, on plots for King’s flight, in National Convention.

      CARRIER, a Revolutionist, in National Assembly, Nantes noyades,
      guillotined.

      CARTAUX, General, fights Girondins, at Toulon.

      CASTRIES, Duke de, duel with Lameth.

      CATHELINEAU, of La Vendée.

      CAVAIGNAC, Convention Representative.

      CAZALES, Royalist, in Constituent Assembly.

      CAZOTTE, author of “Diable Amoureux,” seized, saved for a time by
      his daughter.

      CERCLE, Social, of Fauchet.

      CERUTTI, his funeral oration on Mirabeau.

      CEVENNES, revolt of.

      CHABOT, of Mountain, against Kings, imprisoned.

      CHABRAY, Louison, at Versailles, October Fifth.

      CHALIER, Jacobin, Lyons, executed, body raised.

      CHAMBON, Dr., Mayor of Paris, retires.

      CHAMFORT, Cynic, arrested, suicide.

      CHAMP-DE-MARS, Federation, preparations for, accelerated by
      patriots, anecdotes of, Federation-scene at, funeral-service,
      Nanci, riot, Patriot petition, 1791, new Federation, 1792.

      CHAMPS Elysées, Menads at, festivities in.

      CHANTILLY Palace, a prison.

      CHAPT-RASTIGNAC, Abbé de, massacred.

      CHARENTON, Marseillese at.

      CHARLES I., Trial of, sold in Paris.

      CHARLEVILLE Artillery.

      CHARTRES, grain-riot at.

      CHATEAUBRIANDS in French Revolution.

      CHATELET, Achille de, advises Republic.

      CHATILLON-SUR-SEVRE, insurrection at.

      CHAUMETTE, notice of, signs petition, in governing committee, at
      King’s trial, demands constitution, arrest and death of.

      CHAUVELIN, Marquis de, in London, dismissed.

      CHENAYE, Baudin de la, massacred.

      CHENIER, Poet, and Mlle. Théroigne.

      CHEPY, at La Force in September.

      CHOISEUL, Duke, why dismissed.

      CHOISEUL, Colonel Duke, assists Louis’s flight, too late at
      Varennes.

      CHOISI, General, at Avignon.

      CHURCH, spiritual guidance, of Rome, decay of.

      CITIZENS, French, demeanour of.

      CLAIRFAIT, Commander of Austrians.

      CLAVIERE, edits “Moniteur,” account of, Finance Minister,
      arrested, suicide of.

      CLERGY, French, in States-General, conciliators of orders, joins
      Third Estate, lands, national, power of, &c.

      CLERMONT, flight of King through, Prussians near.

      CLERY, on Louis’s last scene.

      CLOOTZ, Anacharsis, Baron de, account of, disparagement of, in
      National Convention, universal republic of, on nullity of
      religion, purged from the Jacobins, guillotined.

      CLOVIS, in the Champ-de-Mars.

      CLUB, Electoral, at Paris, becomes Provisional Municipality,
      permanent.

      CLUGNY, M., as Finance Minister.

      COBLENTZ, Emigrants at.

      COBOURG and Dumouriez.

      COCKADES, green, tricolor, black, national, trampled, white.

      COFFINHAL, Judge, delivers Henriot.

      COIGNY, Duke de, a sinecurist.

      COMMISSIONERS, Convention, like Kings.

      COMMITTEE of Defence, Central, of Watchfulness, of Public
      Salvation, Circular of, of the Constitution, Revolutionary.

      COMMUNE, Council-General of the, Sovereign of France, enlisting.

      CONDE, Prince de, attends Louis XV., departure of.

      CONDE, Town, surrender of.

      CONDORCET, Marquis, edits “Moniteur,” Girondist, prepares
      Address, on Robespierre, death of.

      CONSTITUTION, French, completed, will not march, burst in pieces,
      new, of 1793.

      CONVENTION, National, in what case to be summoned, demanded by
      some, determined on, Deputies elected, constituted, motions in,
      work to be done, hated, politeness, effervescence of, on
      September Massacres, guard for, try the King, debate on trial,
      invite to revolt, condemn Louis, armed Girondins in, power of,
      removes to Tuileries, besieged, June 2nd, 1793, extinction of
      Girondins, Jacobins and, on forfeited property, Carmagnole,
      Goddess of Reason, Representatives, at Feast of Être Suprême, end
      of Robespierre, retrospect of, Féraud, Germinal, Prairial,
      termination, its successor.

      CORDAY, Charlotte, account of, in Paris, assissinates Marat,
      examined, executed.

      CORDELIERS, Club, Hébert in.

      COURT, Chevalier de.

      COUTHON, of Mountain, in Legislative, in National Convention, at
      Lyons, in Salut Committee, his question in Jacobins, decree of,
      arrest and execution.

      COVENANT, Scotch, French.

      CRUSSOL, Marquise de, executed.

      CUISSA, massacre of, at La Force.

      CUSSY, Girondin, retreats to Bourdeaux.

      CUSTINE, General, takes Mentz, retreats, censured, guillotined,
      his son guillotined.

      CUSTOMS and morals.

      DAMAS, Colonel Comte de, at Clermont, at Varennes.

      DAMPIERRE, General, killed.

      DAMPMARTIN, Captain, at riot in Rue St. Antoine, on condition of
      army, on state of France, at Avignon, on Marseillese.

      DANDOINS, Captain, Flight to Varennes.

      DANTON, notice of, President of Cordeliers, and Marat, served
      with writs, in Cordeliers Club, elected Councillor, Mirabeau of
      Sansculottes, in Jacobins, for Deposition, of Committee, August
      Tenth, Minister of Justice, after September massacre, after
      Jemappes, and Robespierre, in Netherlands, at King’s trial, on
      war, rebukes Marat, peace-maker, and Dumouriez, in Salut
      Committee, breaks with Girondins, his law of Forty sous, and
      Revolutionary Government, and Paris Municipality, retires to
      Arcis, and Robespierre, arrested, tried, and guillotined.

      DAVID, Painter, in National Convention, works by, hemlock with
      Robespierre.

      DEMOCRACY, on Bunker Hill, spread of, in France.

      DEPARTMENTS, France divided into.

      DESEZE, Pleader for Louis.

      DESHUTTES massacred, Fifth October.

      DESILLES, Captain, in Nanci.

      DESLONS, Captain, at Varennes, would liberate the King.

      DESMOULINS, Camille, notice of, in arms at Café de Foy, on
      Insurrection of Women, in Cordeliers Club, and Brissot, in
      National Convention, on Sansculottism, on plots, suspect, for a
      committee of mercy, ridicules law of the suspect, his Journal,
      trial of, guillotined, widow guillotined.

      DIDEROT, prisoner in Vincennes.

      DINNERS, defined.

      DOPPET, General, at Lyons.

      DROUET, Jean B., notice of, discovers Royalty in flight, raises
      Varennes, blocks the bridge, defends his prize, rewarded, to be
      in Convention, captured by Austrians.

      DUBARRY, Dame, and Louis XV., flight of, imprisoned.

      DUBOIS Crancé bombards and captures Lyons.

      DUCHATEL votes, wrapped in blankets, at Caen.

      DUCOS, Girondin.

      DUGOMMIER, General, at Toulon.

      DUHAMEL, killed by Marseillese.

      DUMONT, on Mirabeau.

      DUMOURIEZ, notice by, account of him, in Brittany, at Nantes, in
      La Vendée, sent for to Paris, Foreign Minister, dismissed, to
      Army, disobeys Lückner, Commander-in-Chief, his army, Council of
      War, seizes Argonne Forest, Grand Pre, and mutineers, and Marat
      in Paris, to Netherlands, at Jemappes, in Paris, discontented,
      retreats, beaten, will join the enemy, arrests his arresters,
      escapes to Austrians.

      DUPONT, Deputy, Atheist.

      DUPORT, Adrien, in Paris Parlement, in Constituent Assembly, one
      of a trio, law-reformer.

      DUPORTAIL, in office.

      DUROSOY, Royalist, guillotined.

      DUSAULX, M., on taking of Bastille, notice of.

      DUTERTRE, in office.

      EDGEWORTH, Abbé, attends Louis, at execution of Louis.

      EGLANTINE, Fabre d’, in National Convention, assists in New
      Calendar, imprisoned.

      ELIE, Capt., at Siege of Bastille, after victory.

      ELIZABETH, Princess, flight to Varennes, August 10th, in Temple
      Prison, guillotined.

      ENGLAND declares war on France, captures Toulon.

      ENRAGED Club, the.

      EQUALITY, reign of.

      ESCUYER, Patriot l’, at Avignon.

      ESPREMENIL, Duval d’, notice of, patriot, speaker in Paris
      Parlement, with crucifix, discovers Brienne’s plot, arrest and
      speech of, turncoat, in Constituent Assembly, beaten by populace,
      guillotined, widow guillotined.

      ESTAING, Count d’, notice of, National Colonel, Royalist, at
      Queen’s Trial.

      ESTATE, Fourth, of Editors.

      ETOILE, beginning of Federation at.

      FAMINE, in France, in 1788-1792, Louis and Assembly try to
      relieve, in 1792, and remedy, remedy by maximum, &c.

      FAUCHET, Abbé, at siege of Bastille, his Te-Deums, his harangue
      on Franklin, his Cercle Social, in First Parliament, motion by,
      doffs his insignia, King’s death, lamentation, will demit, trial
      of.

      FAUSSIGNY, sword in hand.

      FAVRAS, Chevalier, execution of.

      FEDERATION, spread of, of Champ-de-Mars, deputies to, human
      species at, ceremonies of, a new, 1792.

      FERAUD, in National Convention, massacred there.

      FERSEN, Count, gets Berline built, acts coachman in King’s
      flight.

      FEUILLANS, Club, denounce Jacobins, decline, extinguished,
      Battalion, Justices and Patriotism.

      FINANCES, serious state of, how to be improved.

      FLANDERS, how Louis XV. conquers.

      FLANDRE, regiment de, at Versailles.

      FLESSELLES, Paris Provost, shot.

      FLEURIOT, Mayor, guillotined.

      FLEURY, Joly de, Controller of Finance.

      FONTENAI, Mme.

      FORSTER (FOSTER), and French soldier, account of.

      FOUCHE, at Lyons.

      FOULON, bad repute of, sobriquet, funeral of, alive, judged,
      massacred.

      FOURNIER, and Orleans Prisoners.

      FOY, Café de, revolutionary.

      FRANCE, abject, under Louis XV., Kings of, early history of,
      decay of Kingship in, on accession of Louis XVI., and Philosophy,
      famine in, 1775, state of, prior Revolution, aids America, in
      1788, inflammable, July 1789, gibbets, general overturn, how to
      reform, riotousness of, Mirabeau and, after King’s flight,
      petitions against Royalty, warfare of towns in, European league
      against, terror of, in Spring 1792, decree of war, France in
      danger, general enlisting, rage of, Autumn 1792, Marat’s
      Circular, September, Sansculottic, declaration of war, Mountain
      and Girondins divide, communes of, coalition against, levy in
      mass.

      FRANKLIN, Ambassador to France, his death lamented, bust in
      Jacobins.

      FRENCH Anglomania, character of the, literature, in 1784,
      Parlements, nature of, Mirabeau, type of the, mob, character of.

      FRERON, notice of, renegade, Gilt Youth of.

      FRETEAU, at Royal Session, arrested, liberated.

      FREYS, the Jew brokers, imprisoned.

      GALLOIS, to La Vendée.

      GAMAIN, Sieur, informer.

      GARAT, Minister of Justice.

      GENLIS, Mme., account of, and D’Orléans, to Switzerland.

      GENSONNE, Girondist, to La Vendée, arrested, trial of.

      GEORGES-CADOUDAL, in La Vendée.

      GEORGET, at taking of Bastille.

      GERARD, Farmer, Rennes deputy.

      GERLE, Dom, at Theot’s.

      GERMINAL Twelfth, First of April 1795.

      GIRONDINS, origin of term, in National Convention, against
      Robespierre, on King’s trial, and Jacobins, formula of, favourers
      of, schemes of, to be seized? break with Danton, armed against
      Mountain, accuse Marat, departments, commission of twelve,
      commission broken, arrested, dispersed, war by, retreat of
      eleven, trial and death of.

      GOBEL, Archbishop to be, renounces religion, arrested,
      guillotined.

      GOETHE, at Argonne, in Prussian retreat, at Mentz.

      GOGUELAT, Engineer, assists Louis’s flight, intrigues.

      GONDRAN, captain of Guard.

      GORSAS, Journalist, pleads for Swiss, in National Convention, his
      house broken into, guillotined.

      GOUJON, Member of Convention, in riot of Prairial, suicide of.

      GOUPIL, on extreme left.

      GOUVION, Major-General, at Paris, flight to Varennes, death of.

      GOVERNMENT, Maurepas’s, bad state of French, French
      revolutionary, Danton on.

      GRAVE, Chev. de, War Minister, loses head.

      GREGOIRE, Curé, notice of, in National Convention, detained in
      Convention, and destruction of religion.

      GUADET, Girondin, cross-questions Ministers, arrested,
      guillotined.

      GUARDS, Swiss, and French, at Réveillon riot, French refuse to
      fire, come to Palais-Royal, fire on Royal-Allemand, to Bastille,
      name changed, National origin of, number of, Body at Versailles,
      October Fifth, fight, fly in Château, Body, and French, at
      Versailles, National, at Nanci, French, last appearance of,
      National, how commanded, 1791, Constitutional, dismissed,
      Filles-St.-Thomas, routed, Swiss, at Tuileries, ordered to cease,
      destroyed, eulogy of, Departmental, for National Convention.

      GUILLAUME, Clerk, pursues King.

      GUILLOTIN, Doctor, summoned by Paris Parlement, invents the
      guillotine, deputed to King.

      GUILLOTINE invented, described, in action, to be improved, number
      of sufferers by.

      HASSENFRATZ, in War-office.

      HÉBERT, Editor of “Père Duchene,” signs petition, arrested, at
      Queen’s trial, quickens Revolutionary Tribunal, arrested, and
      guillotined, widow guillotined.

      HENAULT, President, on Surnames.

      HENRIOT, General of National Guard, and the Convention, to
      deliver Robespierre, seized, rescued, end of.

      HERBOIS, Collot d’, notice of, in National Convention, at Lyons
      massacre, in Salut Committee, attempt to assassinate, bullied at
      Jacobins, President, night of Thermidor, accused, banished.

      HERITIER, Jerome l’, shot at Versailles.

      HOCHE, Sergeant Lazare, General against Prussia, pacifies La
      Vendée,

      HONDSCHOOTEN, Battle of.

      HOTEL des Invalides, plundered.

      HOTEL de Ville, after Bastille taken, harangues at.

      HOUCHARD, General, unsuccessful.

      HOWE, Lord, defeats French.

      HUGUENIN, Patriot, tocsin in heart, 20th June 1792.

      HULIN, half-pay, at siege of Bastille.

      INISDAL’S, Count d’, plot.

      INSURRECTION, most sacred of duties, of Women, of August Tenth,
      difficult, of Paris, against Girondins, sacred right of, last
      Sansculottic, of Baboeuf.

      ISNARD, Max, notice of, in First Parliament, on Ministers, to
      demolish Paris.

      JACOB, Jean Claude, father of men.

      JACOBINS, Society, beginning of, Hall, described, and members,
      Journal &c., of, daughters of, at Nanci, suppressed, Club
      increases, and Mirabeau, prospers, “Lords of the Articles,”
      extinguishes Feuillans, Hall enlarged, described, and
      Marseillese, and Lavergne, message to Dumouriez, missionaries in
      Army, on King’s trial, on accusation of Robespierre, against
      Girondins, National Convention and, Popular Tribunals of, purges
      members, to become dominant, locked out by Legendre, begs back
      its keys, decline of, mobbed, suspended, hunted down.

      JALES, Camp of, Royalists at, destroyed.

      JAUCOURT, Chevalier, and Liberty.

      JAY, Dame le.

      JONES, Paul, equipped for America, at Paris, account of, burial
      of.

      JOUNNEAU, Deputy, in danger in September.

      JOURDAN, General, repels Austria.

      JOURDAN, Coupe-tete, at Versailles, leader of Brigands, supreme
      in Avignon, massacre by, flight of, guillotined.

      JULIEN, Sieur Jean, guillotined.

      KAUNITZ, Prince, denounces Jacobins.

      KELLERMANN, at Valmy.

      KLOPSTOCK, naturalised.

      KNOX, John, and the Virgin.

      KORFF, Baroness de, in flight to Varennes.

      LAFARGE, President of Jacobins, Madame Lavergne and.

      LAFAYETTE, bust of, erected, against Calonne, demands by, in
      Notables, Cromwell-Grandison, Bastille time, Vice-President of
      National Assembly, General of National Guard, resigns and
      reaccepts, Scipio-Americanus, thanked, rewarded, French Guards
      and, to Versailles, Fifth October, at Versailles, swears the
      Guards, Feuillant, on abolition of Titles, at Champ-de-Mars
      Federation, at De Castries’ riot, character of, in Day of
      Poniards, difficult position of, at King’s going to St. Cloud,
      resigns and reaccepts, at flight from Tuileries, after escape of
      King, moves for amnesty, resigns, decline of, doubtful against
      Jacobins, journey to Paris, to be accused, flies to Holland.

      LAFLOTTE, poison-plot, informer.

      LAIS, Sieur, Jacobin, with Louis Philippe.

      LALLY, death of.

      LAMARCHE, guillotined.

      LAMARCK’S, illness of Mirabeau at.

      LAMBALLE, Princess de, to England, intrigues for Royalists, at La
      Force, massacred.

      LAMETH, in Constituent Assembly, one of a trio, brothers, notice
      of, Jacobins, Charles, Duke de Castries, brothers become
      constitutional, Theodore, in First Parliament.

      LAMOIGNON, Keeper of Seals, dismissed, effigy burned, and death
      of.

      LAMOTTE, Countess de, and Diamond Necklace, in the Salpêtrière,
      “Memoirs” burned, in London, M. de, in prison.

      LAMOURETTE, Abbé, kiss of, guillotined.

      LANJUINAIS, Girondin, clothes torn, arrested, recalled.

      LAPORTE, Intendant, guillotined.

      LARIVIERE, Justice, imprisoned.

      LA ROCHEJACQUELIN, in La Vendée, death of.

      LASOURCE, accuses Danton, president, and Marat, arrested,
      condemned.

      LATOUR-MAUBOURG, notice of.

      LAUNAY, Marquis de, Governor of Bastille, besieged, unassisted,
      to blow up Bastille, massacred.

      LAVERGNE, surrenders Longwi.

      LAVOISIER, Chemist, guillotined.

      LAW, Martial, in Paris, Book of the.

      LAWYERS, their influence on the Revolution, number of, in Tiers
      Etat, in Parliament First.

      LAZARE, Maison de St., plundered.

      LEBAS at Strasburg, arrested,

      LEBON, Priest, in National Convention, at Arras, guillotined.

      LECHAPELIER, Deputy, and Insurrection of Women.

      LECOINTRE, National Major, will not fight, active, in First
      Parliament.

      LEFEVRE, Abbé, distributes powder.

      LEGENDRE, in danger, at Tuileries riot, in National Convention,
      against Girondins, for Danton, locks out Jacobins, in First of
      Prairial.

      LENFANT, Abbé, on Protestant claims, massacred.

      LEPELLETIER, Section for Convention, revolt of, in Vendémiaire.

      LETTRES-DE-CACHET, and Parlement of Paris.

      LEVASSEUR, in National Convention, Convention Representative.

      LIANCOURT, Duke de, Liberal, not a revolt, but a revolution.

      LIES, Philosophism on, to be extinguished, how.

      LIGNE, Prince de, death of.

      LILLE, Colonel Rouget de, Marseillese Hymn.

      LILLE, besieged.

      LINGUET, his “Bastille Unveiled,” returns.

      LOISEROLLES, General, guillotined for his son.

      LONGWI, surrender of, fugitives at Paris.

      LORDS of the Articles, Jacobins as.

      LORRAINE Fédérés and the Queen, state of, in 1790.

      LOUIS XIV., l’etat c’est moi, booted in Parlement, pursues
      Louvois.

      LOUIS XV., origin of his surname, last illness of, dismisses Dame
      Dubarry, Choiseul, wounded, has small-pox, his mode of conquest,
      impoverishes France, his daughters, on death, on ministerial
      capacity, death and burial of.

      LOUIS XVI., at his accession, good measures of, temper and
      pursuits of, difficulties of, commences governing, and Notables,
      holds Royal Session, receives States-General Deputies, in
      States-General procession, speech to States-General, National
      Assembly, unwise policy of, dismisses Necker, apprised of the
      Revolution, conciliatory, visits Assembly, Bastille, visits
      Paris, deserted, will fly, languid, at Dinner of Guards,
      deposition of, proposed, October Fifth, women deputies, to fly or
      not? grants the acceptance, Paris propositions to, in the Château
      tumult, appears to mob, will go to Paris, his wisest course,
      procession to Paris, review of his position, lodged at Tuileries,
      Restorer of French Liberty, no hunting, locksmith, schemes,
      visits Assembly, Federation, Hereditary Representative, will fly,
      and D’Inisdal’s plot, Mirabeau, useless, indecision of, ill of
      catarrh, prepares for St. Cloud, hindered by populace, effect,
      should he escape, prepares for flight, his circular, flies,
      letter to Assembly, manner of flight, loiters by the way,
      detected by Drouet, captured at Varennes, indecision there,
      return to Paris, reception there, to be deposed? reinstated,
      reception of Legislative, position of, proposes war, with tears,
      vetoes, dissolves Roland Ministry, in riot of, June 20, and
      Pétion, at Federation, with cuirass, declared forfeited, last
      levee of, Tenth August, quits Tuileries for Assembly, in
      Assembly, sent to Temple prison, in Temple, to be tried, and the
      Locksmith Gamain, at the bar, his will, condemned, parting scene,
      and execution of, his son.

      LOUIS-PHILIPPE, King of the French, Jacobin door-keeper, at
      Valmy, bravery at Jemappes, and sister, with Dumouriez to
      Austrians, to Switzerland.

      LOUSTALOT, Editor.

      LOUVET, his “Chevalier de Faublas,” his “Sentinelles,” and
      Robespierre, in National Convention, Girondin accuses
      Robespierre, arrested, retreats to Bourdeaux, escape of,
      recalled.

      LUCKNER, Supreme General, and Dumouriez, guillotined.

      LUNEVILLE, Inspector Malseigne at.

      LUX, Adam, guillotined.

      LYONS, Federation at, disorders in, Chalier, Jacobin, executed
      at, capture of magazine, massacres at.

      MAILHE, Deputy, on trial of Louis.

      MAILLARD, Usher, at siege of Bastille, Insurrection of Women,
      drum, Champs Elysées, entering Versailles, addresses National
      Assembly there, signs Déchéance petition, in September Massacres.

      MAILLE, Camp-Marshal, at Tuileries, massacred at La Force.

      MAILLY, Marshal, one of Four Generals.

      MALESHERBES, M. de, in King’s Council, defends Louis.

      MALSEIGNE, Army Inspector, at Nanci, imprisoned, liberated.

      MANDAT, Commander of Guards, August, 1792.

      MANUEL, Jacobin, slow-sure, in August Tenth, in Governing
      Committee, haranguing at La Force, in National Convention,
      motions in, vote at King’s trial, in prison, guillotined.

      MARAT, Jean Paul, horseleech to D’Artois, notice of, against
      violence, at siege of Bastille, summoned by Constituent, not to
      be gagged, astir, how to regenerate France, police and, on
      abolition of titles, would gibbet Mirabeau, bust in Jacobins,
      concealed in cellars, in seat of honour, signs circular, elected
      to Convention, and Dumouriez, oaths by, in Convention, on
      sufferings of People, and Girondins, arrested, returns in
      triumph, fall of Girondins.

      MARECHAL, Atheist, Calendar by.

      MARECHALE, the Lady, on nobility.

      MARSEILLES, Brigands at, on Déchéance, the bar of iron, for
      Girondism.

      MARSEILLESE, March and Hymn of, at Charenton, at Paris,
      Filles-St.-Thomas and, barracks.

      MASSACRE, Avignon, September, number slain in, compared to
      Bartholomew.

      MATON, Advocate, his “Resurrection.”

      MAUPEOU, under Louis XV., and Dame Dubarry.

      MAUREPAS, Prime Minister, character of, government of, death of.

      MAURY, Abbé, character of, in Constituent Assembly, seized
      emigrating, dogmatic, efforts fruitless, made Cardinal.

      MEMMAY, M., of Quincey, explosion of rustics.

      MENOU, General, arrest of.

      MENTZ, occupied by French, siege of, surrender of.

      MERCIER, on Paris revolting, Editor, the September Massacre, in
      National Convention, King’s trial.

      MERLIN of Thionville in Mountain, irascible, at Mentz.

      MERLIN of Douai, Law of Suspect.

      METZ, Bouillé at, troops mutinous at.

      MEUDON tannery.

      MIOMANDRE de Ste. Marie, Bodyguard, October Fifth, left for dead,
      revives, rewarded.

      MIRABEAU, Marquis, on the state of France in 1775, and his son,
      his death.

      MIRABEAU, Count, his pamphlets, the Notables, Lettres-de-Cachet
      against, expelled by the Provence Noblesse, cloth-shop, is Deputy
      for Aix, king of Frenchmen, family of, wanderings of, his future
      course, groaned at, in Assembly, his newspaper suppressed,
      silences Usher de Brézé, at Bastille ruins, on Robespierre, fame
      of, on French deficit, populace, on veto, Mounier, October Fifth,
      insight of, defends veto, courage, revenue of, saleable? and
      Danton, on Constitution, at Jacobins, his courtship, on state of
      Army, Marat would gibbet, his power in France, on D’Orléans, on
      duelling, interview with Queen, speech on emigrants, the “trente
      voix,” in Council, his plans for France, probable career of, last
      appearance in Assembly, anxiety of populace for, last sayings of,
      death and funeral of, burial-place of, character of, last of
      Mirabeaus, bust in Jacobins, bust demolished.

      MIRABEAU the younger, nicknamed Tonneau, in Constituent Assembly,
      breaks his sword.

      MIRANDA, General, attempts Holland.

      MIROMENIL, Keeper of Seals.

      MOLEVILLE, Bertrand de, Historian, minister, his plan, frivolous
      policy of, and D’Orléans, Jesuitic, concealed.

      MOMORO, Bookseller, agrarian, arrested, guillotined, his Wife,
      “Goddess of Reason.”

      MONGE, Mathematician, in office, assists in new Calendar.

      MONSABERT, G. de, President of Paris Parlement, arrested.

      MONTELIMART, covenant sworn at.

      MONTESQUIOU, General, takes Savoy.

      MONTGAILLARD, on captive Queen, on September Massacres.

      MONTMARTRE, trenches at.

      MONTMORIN, War-Secretary.

      MOORE, Doctor, at attack of Tuileries, at La Force.

      MORANDE, De, newspaper by, will return, in prison.

      MORELLET, Philosophe.

      MOUCHETON, M. de, of King’s Bodyguard.

      MOUDON, Abbé, confessor to Louis XV.

      MOUNIER, at Grenoble, proposes Tennis-Court oath, October Fifth,
      President of Constituent Assembly, deputed to King, dilemma of.

      MOUNTAIN, members of the, re-elected in National Convention,
      Gironde and, favourers of the, vulnerable points of, prevails,
      Danton, Duperret, after Gironde dispersed, in labour.

      MULLER, General, expedition to Spain.

      MURAT, in Vendémiaire revolt.

      NANCI, revolt at, description of town, deputation imprisoned,
      deputation of mutineers, state of mutineers in, Bouillé’s fight,
      Paris thereupon, military executions at, Assembly Commissioners.

      NANTES, after King’s flight, massacres at.

      NAPOLEON Buonaparte (Buonaparte) studying mathematics, pamphlet
      by, democratic, in Corsica, August Tenth, under General Cartaux,
      at Toulon, Josephine and, at La Cabarus’s, Vendémiaire.

      NARBONNE, Louis de, assists flight of King’s Aunts, to be
      War-Minister, demands by, secreted, escapes.

      NAVY, Louis XV. on French.

      NECKER, and finance, account of, dismissed, refuses Brienne,
      recalled, difficulty as to States-General, reconvokes Notables,
      opinion of himself, popular, dismissed, recalled, returns in
      glory, his plans, becoming unpopular, departs, with difficulty.

      NECKLACE, Diamond.

      NERWINDEN, battle of.

      NIEVRE-CHOL, Mayor of Lyons.

      NOBLES, state of the, under Louis XV., new, join Third Estate.

      NOTABLES, Calonne’s convocation of, assembled 22nd February 1787,
      members of, effects of dismissal of, reconvoked, 6th November
      1788, dismissed again.

      NOYADES, Nantes.

      OCTOBER Fifth, 1789

      OGE, condemned.

      ORLEANS, High Court at, prisoners massacred at Versailles.

      ORLEANS, a Duke d’, in Louis XV.”s sick-room.

      ORLEANS, Philippe (Egalité), Duc d’, Duke de Chartres (till
      1785), waits on Dauphin, Father, with Louis XV., not Admiral,
      wealth, debauchery, Palais-Royal buildings, in Notables (Duke
      d’Orléans now), looks of, Bed-of-Justice, 1787, arrested,
      liberated, in States-General Procession, joins Third Estate, his
      party, in Constituent Assembly, Fifth October and, shunned in
      England, Mirabeau, cash deficiency, use of, in Revolution,
      accused by Royalists, at Court, insulted, in National Convention,
      decline of, in Convention, vote on King’s trial, at King’s
      execution, arrested, imprisoned, condemned, and executed.

      ORMESSON, d’, Controller of Finance.

      PACHE, Swiss, account of, Minister of War, Mayor, dismissed,
      reinstated, imprisoned.

      PAN, Mallet du, solicits for Louis.

      PANIS, Advocate, in Governing Committee, and Beaumarchais,
      confidant of Danton.

      PANTHEON, first occupant of.

      PARENS, Curate, renounces religion.

      PARIS, origin of city, police in 1750, ship Ville-de-Paris, riot
      at Palais-de-Justice, beautified, in 1788, election, 1789, troops
      called to, military preparations in, July Fourteenth, cry for
      arms, search for arms, Bailly, mayor of, trade-strikes in,
      Lafayette patrols, October Fifth, propositions to Louis, Louis
      in, Journals, bill-stickers, undermined, after Champ-de-Mars
      Federation, on Nanci affair, on death of Mirabeau, on flight to
      Varennes, on King’s return, Directory suspends Pétion, enlisting,
      1792, on forfeiture of King, Sections, rising of, August Tenth,
      prepares for insurrection, Municipality supplanted, statues
      destroyed, King and Queen to prison, September, 1792, names
      printed on house-door, in insurrection, Girondins, May 1793,
      Municipality in red caps, brotherly supper, Sections to be
      abolished.

      PARIS, Guardsman, assassinates Lepelletier.

      PARIS, friend of Danton.

      PARLEMENT, patriotic, against Taxation, remonstrates, at
      Versailles, arrested, origin of, nature of, corrupt, at Troyes,
      yields, Royal Session in, how to be tamed, oath and declaration
      of, firmness of, scene in, and dismissal of, reinstated,
      unpopular, summons Dr. Guillotin, abolished.

      PARLEMENTS, Provincial, adhere to Paris, rebellious, exiled,
      grand deputations of, reinstated, abolished.

      PELTIER, Royalist Pamphleteer, “Père Duchene,” Editor of.

      PEREYRA (Peyreyra), Walloon, account of, imprisoned.

      PETION, account of, Dutch-built, and D’Espréménil, to be mayor,
      Varennes, meets King, and Royalty, at close of Assembly, in
      London, Mayor of Paris, in Twentieth June, suspended, reinstated,
      welcomes Marseillese, August Tenth, in Tuileries, rebukes
      Septemberers, in National Convention, declines mayorship, against
      Mountain, retreat to Bourdeaux, end of.

      PÉTION, National-Pique, christening of.

      PETITION of famishing French, at Fatherland’s altar, of the Eight
      Thousand.

      PETITIONS, on capture of King, for deposition, &c.

      PHELIPPEAUX, purged out of the Jacobins.

      PHILOSOPHISM, influence of, on Revolution, what it has done with
      Church, with Religion.

      PICHEGRU, General, account of, in Germinal.

      PILNITZ, Convention at.

      PIN, Latour du, War-Minister, dismissed.

      PITT, against France, and Girondins, inflexible.

      PLOTS, of King’s flight, various, of Aristocrats, October Fifth,
      Royalist, of Favras and others, cartels, Twelve bullies from
      Switzerland, D’Inisdal, will-o’-wisp, Mirabeau and Queen,
      poniards, Mallet du Pan, Narbonne’s, traces of, in
      Armoire-de-Fer, against Girondins, Desmoulins on, prison.

      POLIGNAC, Duke de, a sinecurist, dismissed, at Bale, younger, in
      Ham.

      POMPIGNAN, President of National Assembly.

      POPE PIUS VI., excommunicates Talleyrand, his effigy burned.

      PRAIRIAL First to Third, May 20-22, 1795.

      PRECY, siege of, Lyons.

      PRIESTHOOD, disrobing of, costumes in Carmagnole.

      PRIESTLEY, Dr., riot against, naturalised, elected to National
      Convention.

      PRIESTS, dissident, marry in France, Anti-national, hanged, many
      killed near the Abbaye, number slain in September Massacre, to
      rescue Louis, drowned at Nantes.

      PRISONS, Paris, in Bastille time, full, August 1792, number of,
      in France, state of, in Terror, thinned after Terror.

      PRISON, Abbaye, refractory Members sent to, Temple, Louis sent
      to, Abbaye, Priests killed near, massacres at La Force, Chatelet,
      and Conciergerie.

      PROCESSION, of States-General Deputies, of Necker and D’Orléans
      busts, of Louis to Paris, again, after Varennes, of Louis to
      trial, at Constitution of 1793.

      PROVENCE Noblesse, expel Mirabeau.

      PRUDHOMME, Editor, on assassins, on Cavaignac.

      PRUSSIA, Fritz of, against France, army of, ravages France, King
      of, and French Princes.

      PUISAYE, Girondin General, at Quiberon.

      QUERET-DEMERY, in Bastille.

      QUIBERON, debarkation at.

      RABAUT, St. Etienne, French Reformer, in National Convention, in
      Commission of Twelve, arrested, between two walls, guillotined.

      RAYNAL, Abbé, Philosophe, his letter to Constituent Assembly.

      REBECQUI, of Marseilles, in National Convention, against
      Robespierre, retires, drowns himself.

      REDING, Swiss, massacred.

      RELIGION, Christian, and French Revolution, abolished, Clootz on,
      a new.

      REMY, Cornet, at Clermont.

      RENAULT, Cecile, to assassinate Robespierre, guillotined.

      RENE, King, bequeathed Avignon to Pope.

      RENNES, riot in.

      RENWICK, last of Cameronians.

      REPAIRE, Tardivet du, Bodyguard, Fifth October, rewarded.

      REPRESENTATIVES, Paris, Town.

      REPUBLIC, French, first mention of, first year of, established,
      universal, Clootz’s, Girondin, one and indivisible, its triumphs.

      RESSON, Sieur, reports Lafayette to Jacobins.

      REVEILLON, house destroyed.

      REVOLT, Paris, in, of Gardes Françaises, becomes Revolution,
      military, what, of Lepelletier section.

      REVOLUTION, French, causes of the, Lord Chesterfield on the, not
      a revolt, meaning of the term, whence it grew, general
      commencement of, prosperous characters in, Philosophes and, state
      of army in, progress of, duelling in, Republic decided on,
      European powers and, Royalist opinion of, cardinal movements in,
      Danton and the, changes produced by the, effect of King’s death
      on, Girondin idea of, suspicion in, Terror and, and Christian
      religion, Revolutionary Committees, Government doings in,
      Robespierre essential to, end of.

      RHEIMS, in September massacre.

      RICHELIEU, at death of Louis XV., death of.

      RIOT, Paris, in May 1750, Cornlaw (in 1775), at Palais de Justice
      (1787), triumph, of Rue St. Antoine, of July Fourteenth (1789),
      and Bastille, at Strasburg, Paris, on the veto, Versailles
      Château, October Fifth (1789), uses of, to National Assembly,
      Paris, on Nanci affair, at De Castries’ Hotel, on flight of
      King’s Aunts, at Vincennes, on King’s proposed journey to St.
      Cloud, in Champ-de-Mars, with sharp shot, Paris, Twentieth June,
      1792, August Tenth, 1792, Grain, Paris, at Theatre de la Nation,
      selling sugar, of Thermidor, 1794, of Germinal, 1795, of
      Prairial, final, of Vendémiaire.

      RIOUFFE, Girondin, to Bourdeaux, in prison, on death of
      Girondins, on Mme. Roland.

      ROBESPIERRE, Maximilien, account of, derided in Constituent
      Assembly, Jacobin, incorruptible, on tip of left, elected public
      accuser, after King’s flight, at close of Assembly, at Arras,
      position of, plans in 1792, chief priest of Jacobins, invisible
      on August Tenth, reappears, on September Massacre, in National
      Convention, accused by Girondins, accused by Louvet, acquitted,
      King’s trial, Condorcet on, at Queen’s trial, in Salut Committee,
      and Paris Municipality, embraces Danton, Desmoulins and, and
      Danton, Danton on, at trial, his three scoundrels, supreme, to be
      assassinated, at Feast of Être Suprême, apocalyptic, Theot, on
      Couthon’s plot-decree, reserved, his schemes, fails in
      Convention, applauded at Jacobins, accused, rescued, at Townhall,
      declared out of law, half-killed, guillotined, essential to
      Revolution.

      ROBESPIERRE, Augustin, decreed accused, guillotined.

      ROCHAMBEAU, one of Four Generals, retires.

      ROCHE-AYMON, Grand Almoner of Louis XV.

      ROCHEFOUCAULT, Duke de la, Liberal, President of Directory,
      killed.

      ROEDERER, Syndic, Feuillant, “Chronicle of Fifty Days,” on
      Fédérés Ammunition, dilemma at Tuileries, August 10th.

      ROHAN, Cardinal, Diamond Necklace.

      ROLAND, Madame, notice of, at Lyons, narrative by, in Paris,
      after King’s flight, and Barbaroux, public dinners and business,
      character of, misgivings of, accused, Girondin declining,
      arrested, condemned and guillotined.

      ROLAND, M., notice of, in Paris, Minister, letter, and dismissal
      of, recalled, decline of, on September Massacres, and Pache,
      doings of, resigns, flies, suicide of.

      ROMME, in National Convention, in Caen prison, his new Calendar,
      in riot of Prairial, 1795, suicide.

      ROMOEUF, pursues King.

      RONSIN, General of Revolutionary Army, arrested and guillotined.

      ROSIERE, Thuriot de la, summons Bastille, in First Parliament, in
      National Convention, President at Robespierre’s fall.

      ROSSIGNOL, in September Massacre, in La Vendée.

      ROUSSEAU, Jean-Jacques, Contrat Social of, Gospel according to,
      burial-place of, statue decreed to.

      ROUX, M., “Histoire Parlementaire.”

      ROYALTY, signs of demolished, abolition of.

      RUAMPS, Deputy, against Couthon.

      RUHL, notice of, in riot of Prairial, suicide.

      SABATIER de Cabre, at Royal Session, arrested, liberated.

      ST. ANTOINE to Versailles, Warhorse supper, Nanci affair, at
      Vincennes, at Jacobins, and Marseillese, August Tenth.

      ST. CLOUD, Louis prohibited from.

      ST. DENIS, Mayor of, hanged.

      ST. FARGEAU, Lepelletier, in National Convention, at King’s
      trial, assassinated, burial of.

      ST. HURUGE, Marquis, bull-voice, imprisoned, at Versailles, and
      Pope’s effigy, at Jacobins, on King’s trial.

      ST. JUST in National Convention, on King’s trial, in Salut
      Committee, at Strasburg, repels Prussians, on Revolution, in
      Committee-room, Thermidor, his report, arrested.

      ST. LOUIS Church, States-General procession from.

      ST. MEARD, Jourgniac de, in prison, his “Agony” at La Force.

      ST. MERY, Moreau de, prostrated.

      SALLES, Deputy, guillotined.

      SANSCULOTTISM, apparition of, effects of, growth of, at work,
      origin of term, and Royalty, above theft, a fact, French Nation
      and, Revolutionary Tribunal and, how it lives, consummated, fall
      of, last rising of, death of.

      SANTERRE, Brewer, notice of, at siege of Bastille, at Tuileries,
      June Twentieth, meets Marseillese, Commander of Guards, how to
      relieve famine, at King’s trial, at King’s execution, fails in La
      Vendée, St. Antoine disarmed.

      SAPPER, Fraternal.

      SAUSSE, M., Procureur of Varennes, scene at his house, flies from
      Prussians.

      SAVONNIERES, M., de, Bodyguard, October Fifth, loses temper.

      SAVOY, occupied by French.

      SECHELLES, Herault de, in National Convention, leads Convention
      out, arrested and guillotined.

      SECTIONS, of Paris, denounce Girondins, Committee of.

      SEIGNEURS, French, compelled to fly.

      SERGENT, Agate, Engraver, in Committee, nicknamed “Agate,” signs
      circular.

      SERVAN, War-Minister, proposals of.

      SEVRES, Potteries, Lamotte’s “Mémoires” burnt at.

      SICARD, Abbé, imprisoned, in danger near the Abbaye, account of
      massacre there.

      SIDE, Right and Left, of Constituent Assembly, Right and Left,
      tip of Left, popular, Right after King’s flight, Right quits
      Assembly, Right and Left in First Parliament.

      SIEYES, Abbé, account of, Constitution-builder, in Champ-de-Mars,
      in National Convention, of Constitution Committee, 1790, vote at
      King’s trial, making fresh Constitution.

      SILLERY, Marquis.

      SIMON, Cordwainer, Dauphin committed to, guillotined.

      SIMONEAU, Mayor of Etampes, death of, festival for.

      SOMBREUIL, Governor of Hôtel des Invalides, examined, seized,
      saved by his daughter, guillotined, his son shot.

      SPAIN, at war with France, invaded by France.

      STAAL, Dame de, on liberty.

      STAEL, Mme. de, at States-General procession, intrigue for
      Narbonne, secretes Narbonne.

      STANHOPE and Price, their club and Paris.

      STATES-GENERAL, first suggested, meeting announced, how
      constituted, orders in, Representatives to, Parlements against,
      Deputies to, in Paris, number of Deputies, place of Assembly,
      procession of, installed, union of orders.

      STRASBURG, riot at, in 1789.

      SUFFREN, Admiral, notice of.

      SULLEAU, Royalist, editor, massacred.

      SUSPECT, Law of the, Chaumette jeered on.

      SWEDEN, King of, to assist Marie Antoinette, shot by Ankarstrom.

      SWISS Guards at Brest, prisoners at La Force.

      TALLEYRAND-PERIGORD, Bishop, notice of, at fatherland’s altar,
      his blessing, excommunicated, in London, to America.

      TALLIEN, notice of, editor of “Ami des Citoyens,” in Committee of
      Townhall, August 1792, in National Convention, at Bourdeaux, and
      Madame Cabarus, recalled, suspect, accuses Robespierre,
      Thermidorian.

      TALMA, actor, his soirée.

      TANNERY of human skins, improvements in.

      TARGET, Advocate, declines King’s defence.

      TASSIN, M., and black cockade.

      TENNIS-COURT, National Assembly in, Club of, and procession to,
      master of, rewarded.

      TERROR, consummation of, reign of, designated, number guillotined
      in.

      THEATINS Church, granted to Dissidents.

      THEOT, Prophetess, on Robespierre.

      THERMIDOR, Ninth and Tenth, July 27 and 28, 1794.

      THEROIGNE, Mlle., notice of, in Insurrection of Women, at
      Versailles (October Fifth), in Austrian prison, in Jacobin
      tribune, armed for insurrection (August Tenth), keeps her
      carriage, fustigated, insane.

      THIONVILLE besieged, siege raised.

      THOURET, Law-reformer, dissolves Assembly, guillotined.

      THOUVENOT and Dumouriez.

      TINVILLE, Fouquier, revolutionist, Jacobin, Attorney-General in
      Tribunal Revolutionnaire, at Queen’s trial, at trial of
      Girondins, at trial of Mme. Roland, at trial of Danton, and Salut
      Public, his prison-plots, his batches, the prisons under, mock
      doom of, at trial of Robespierre, accused, guillotined.

      TOLLENDAL, Lally, pleads for father, in States-General, popular,
      crowned.

      TORNE, Bishop.

      TOULON, Girondin, occupied by English, besieged, surrenders.

      TOULONGEON, Marquis, notice of, on Barnave triumvirate, describes
      Jacobins Hall.

      TOURNAY, Louis, at siege of Bastille.

      TOURZELLE, Dame de, escape of.

      TRONCHET, Advocate, defends King.

      TUILERIES, Louis XVI. lodged at, a tile-field, Twentieth June at,
      tickets of entry, “Coblentz,” Marseillese chase
      Filles-Saint-Thomas to, August Tenth, King quits, attacked,
      captured, occupied by National Convention.

      TURGOT, Controller of France, on Corn-law, dismissed, death of.

      TYRANTS, French people rise against.

      UNITED STATES, declaration of Liberty, embassy to Louis XVI.,
      aided by France, of Congress in.

      USHANT, battle off.

      VALADI, Marquis, Gardes Françaises and, guillotined.

      VALAZE, Girondin, on trial of Louis, plots at his house, trial
      of, kills himself.

      VALENCIENNES, besieged, surrendered.

      VARENNE, Maton de la, his experiences in September.

      VARIGNY, Bodyguard, massacred.

      VARLET, “Apostle of Liberty,” arrested.

      VENDEE, La, Commissioners to, state of, in 1792, insurrection in,
      war, after King’s death, on fire, pacificated.

      VENDÉMIAIRE, Thirteenth, October 4, 1795.

      VERDUN, to be besieged, surrendered.

      VERGENNES, M. de, Prime Minister, death of.

      VERGNIAUD, notice of, August Tenth, orations of, President at
      King’s condemnation, in fall of Girondins, trial of, at last
      supper of Girondins.

      VERMOND, Abbé de.

      VERSAILLES, death of Louis XV. at, in Bastille time, National
      Assembly at, troops to, march of women on, of French Guards on,
      insurrection scene at, the Château forced, prisoners massacred
      at.

      VIARD, Spy.

      VILATE, Juryman, guillotined, book by.

      VILLARET-JOYEUSE, Admiral, defeated by Howe.

      VILLEQUIER, Duke de, emigrates.

      VINCENNES, riot at, saved by Lafayette.

      VINCENT, of War-Office, arrested, guillotined.

      VOLTAIRE, at Paris, described, burial-place of.

      WAR, civil, becomes general.

      WASHINGTON, key of Bastille sent to, formula for Lafayette.

      WATIGNY, Battle of.

      WEBER, in Insurrection of Women, Queen leaving Vienna.

      WESTERMANN, August Tenth, purged out of the Jacobins, tried and
      guillotined.

      WIMPFEN, Girondin General.

      YORK, Duke of, besieges Valenciennes and Dunkirk.

      YOUNG, Arthur, at French Revolution.


      FOOTNOTES.


1 (return)
_Abrégé Chronologique de l’Histoire de France_ (Paris, 1775), p. 701.

2 (return)
_Mémoires de M. le Baron Besenval_ (Paris, 1805), ii. 59-90.

3 (return)
Arthur Young, _Travels during the years_ 1787-88-89 (Bury St. Edmunds,
1792), i. 44.

4 (return)
_La Vie et les Mémoires du Général Dumouriez_ (Paris, 1822), i. 141.

5 (return)
_Besenval, Mémoires_, ii. 21.

6 (return)
Dulaure, _Histoire de Paris_ (Paris, 1824), vii. 328.

7 (return)
_Mémoires sur la Vie privée de Marie Antoinette_, par Madame Campan
(Paris, 1826), i. 12

8 (return)
_Histoire de la Révolution Française_, par Deux Amis de la Liberté
(Paris, 1792), ii. 212.

9 (return)
Lacretelle, _Histoire de France pendant le 18me Siècle_ (Paris, 1819)
i. 271.

10 (return)
Dulaure, vii. 261.

11 (return)
Lacretelle, iii. 175.

12 (return)
Chesterfield’s _Letters:_ December 25th, 1753.

13 (return)
Dulaure (viii. 217); Besenval, &c.)

14 (return)
Campan, i. 11-36.

15 (return)
Besenval, i. 199.

16 (return)
Campan, iii. 39.

17 (return)
_Journal de Madame de Hausset_, p. 293, &c.

18 (return)
Campan, i. 197.

19 (return)
Gregorius Turonensis, _Histor._ lib. iv. cap. 21.

20 (return)
Besenval, i. 159-172. Genlis; Duc de Levis, &c.

21 (return)
Weber, _Mémoires concernant Marie-Antoinette_ (London, 1809), i. 22.

22 (return)
One grudges to interfere with the beautiful theatrical “candle,” which
Madame Campan (i. 79) has lit on this occasion, and blown out at the
moment of death. What candles might be lit or blown out, in so large an
Establishment as that of Versailles, no man at such distance would like
to affirm: at the same time, as it was two o’clock in a May Afternoon,
and these royal Stables must have been some five or six hundred yards
from the royal sick-room, the “candle” does threaten to go out in spite
of us. It remains burning indeed—in her fantasy; throwing light on much
in those _Mémoires_ of hers.

23 (return)
Turgot’s Letter: Condorcet, _Vie de Turgot (Œuvres de Condorcet_, t.
v.), p. 67. The date is 24th August, 1774.

24 (return)
Campan, i. 125.

25 (return)
Ib. i. 100-151. Weber, i. 11-50.

26 (return)
Besenval, ii. 282-330.

27 (return)
Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, iii. 147.

28 (return)
A.D. 1834.

29 (return)
Lacretelle, _France pendant le 18me Siècle_, ii. 455. _Biographie
Universelle_, § Turgot (by Durozoir).

30 (return)
_Mémoires de Mirabeau_, écrits par Lui-même, par son Père, son Oncle et
son Fils Adoptif (Paris, 34-5), ii.186.

31 (return)
Boissy d’Anglas, _Vie de Malesherbes_, i. 15-22.

32 (return)
In May, 1776.

33 (return)
February, 1778.

34 (return)
1773-6. See _Œuvres de Beaumarchais;_ where they, and the history of
them, are given.

35 (return)
1777; Deane somewhat earlier: Franklin remained till 1785.

36 (return)
27th July, 1778.

37 (return)
9th and 12th April, 1782.

38 (return)
August 1st, 1785.

39 (return)
_Annual Register_ (Dodsley’s), xxv. 258-267. September, October, 1782.

40 (return)
Gibbon’s _Letters:_ date, 16th June, 1777, &c.

41 (return)
Till May, 1781.

42 (return)
Mercier, _Tableau de Paris_, ii. 51. Louvet, _Roman de Faublas_, &c.

43 (return)
Adelung, _Geschichte der Menschlichen Narrheit_, § Dodd.

44 (return)
1781-82. (Dulaure, viii. 423.)

45 (return)
5th June, 1783.

46 (return)
October and November, 1783.

47 (return)
Lacretelle, 18me _Siècle_, iii. 258.

48 (return)
August, 1784.

49 (return)
Fils Adoptif, _Mémoires de Mirabeau_, iv. 325.

50 (return)
Besenval, iii. 255-58.

51 (return)
Besenval, iii. 216.

52 (return)
Fils Adoptif, _Mémoires de Mirabeau_, t. iv. livv. 4 et 5.

53 (return)
_Biographie Universelle_, § Calonne (by Guizot).

54 (return)
Lacretelle, iii. 286. Montgaillard, i. 347.

55 (return)
Dumont, _Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_ (Paris, 1832), p. 20.

56 (return)
Besenval, iii. 196.

57 (return)
Besenval, iii. 203.

58 (return)
Republished in the _Musée de la Caricature_ (Paris, 1834).

59 (return)
Besenval, iii. 209.

60 (return)
Ib. iii. 211.

61 (return)
Besenval, iii. 225.

62 (return)
Ib. iii. 224.

63 (return)
Montgaillard, _Histoire de France_, i. 410-17.

64 (return)
Besenval, iii. 220.

65 (return)
Montgaillard, i. 360.

66 (return)
Dumont, _Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_, p. 21.

67 (return)
Toulongeon, _Histoire de France depuis la Révolution de 1789_ (Paris,
1803), i. app. 4.

68 (return)
A. Lameth, _Histoire de l’Assemblée Constituante_ (Int. 73).

69 (return)
_Abrégé Chronologique_, p. 975.

70 (return)
9th May, 1766: _Biographie Universelle_, § Lally.

71 (return)
Montgaillard, i. 369. Besenval, &c.

72 (return)
Montgaillard, i. 373.

73 (return)
Fils Adoptif, _Mirabeau_, iv. l. 5.

74 (return)
October, 1787. Montgaillard, i. 374. Besenval, iii. 283.

75 (return)
Dulaure, vi. 306.

76 (return)
Besenval, iii. 309.

77 (return)
Weber, i. 266.

78 (return)
Besenval, iii. 264.

79 (return)
_Mémoires justificatifs de la Comtesse de Lamotte_ (London, 1788). _Vie
de Jeanne de St. Remi, Comtesse de Lamotte_, &c. &c. See _Diamond
Necklace_ (ut suprà).

80 (return)
Lacretelle, iii. 343. Montgaillard, &c.

81 (return)
Besenval, iii. 317.

82 (return)
Montgaillard, i. 405.

83 (return)
Weber, i. 276.

84 (return)
Weber, i. 283.

85 (return)
Besenval, iii. 355.

86 (return)
Toulongeon, i. App. 20.

87 (return)
Montgaillard, i. 404.

88 (return)
Weber, i. 299-303.

89 (return)
A. F. de Bertrand-Moleville, _Mémoires Particuliers_ (Paris, 1816), I.
ch. i. Marmontel, _Mémoires_, iv. 27.

90 (return)
Montgaillard, i. 308.

91 (return)
Besenval, iii. 348.

92 (return)
_La Cour Plénière_, heroï-tragi-comedie en trois actes et en prose;
jouée le 14 Juillet 1788, par une societe d’amateurs dans un Château
aux environs de Versailles; par M. l’Abbé de Vermond, Lecteur de la
Reine: A Bâville (_Lamoignon’s Country-house_), et se trouve à Paris,
chez la Veuve Liberté, à l’enseigne de la Révolution, 1788.—La Passion,
_la Mort et la Résurrection du Peuple:_ Imprimé à Jerusalem, &c.
&c.—See Montgaillard, i. 407.

93 (return)
Weber, i. 275.

94 (return)
Lameth, _Assemb. Const._ (Introd.) p. 87.

95 (return)
Montgaillard, i. 424.

96 (return)
See _Mémoires de Morellet._

97 (return)
Marmontel, iv. 30.

98 (return)
Campan, iii. 104, 111.

99 (return)
Besenval, iii. 360.

100 (return)
Weber, i. 339.

101 (return)
Weber, i. 341.

102 (return)
Besenval, iii. 366.

103 (return)
Weber, i. 342.

104 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire de la Revolution Française; ou Journal des
Assemblées Nationales depuis 1789_ (Paris, 1833 et seqq.), i. 253.
Lameth, _Assemblée Constituante_, i. (Introd.) p. 89.

105 (return)
_Histoire de la Révolution_, par Deux Amis de la Liberté, i. 50.

106 (return)
_Histoire de la Révolution_, par Deux Amis de la Liberté, i. 58.

107 (return)
Montgaillard, i. 461.

108 (return)
Weber, i. 347.

109 (return)
Ibid. i. 360.

110 (return)
_Mémoire sur les Etats-Généraux._ See Montgaillard, i. 457-9.

111 (return)
_Délibérations à prendre pour les Assemblées des Bailliages._

112 (return)
_Mémoire présenté au Roi_, par Monseigneur Comte d’Artois, M. le Prince
de Condé, M. le Duc de Bourbon, M. le Duc d’Enghien, et M. le Prince de
Conti. (Given in _Hist. Parl._ i. 256.)

113 (return)
Marmontel, _Mémoires_ (London, 1805), iv. 33. _Hist. Parl._ &c.

114 (return)
_Rapport fait au Roi dans son Conseil, le 27 Décembre 1788._

115 (return)
5th July; 8th August; 23rd September, &c. &c.

116 (return)
_Réglement du Roi pour la Convocation des Etats-Généraux à Versailles._
(Reprinted, wrong dated, in Histoire Parlementaire, i. 262.)

117 (return)
_Réglement du Roi_ (in _Histoire Parlementaire_, as above, i. 267-307.

118 (return)
Bailly, _Mémoires_, i. 336.

119 (return)
_Protestation et Arrêté des Jeunes Gens de la Ville de Nantes, du_ 28
_Janvier_ 1789, _avant leur départ pour Rennes. Arrêté des Jeunes Gens
de la Ville d’Angers, du_ 4 _Février_ 1789. _Arrêté des Mères, Sœurs,
Epouses et Amantes des Jeunes Citoyens d’Angers, du_ 6 _Février_ 1789.
(Reprinted in _Histoire Parlementaire_, i. 290-3.)

120 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ i. 287. _Deux Amis de la Liberté_, i. 105-128.

121 (return)
_Fils Adoptif_, v. 256.

122 (return)
_Mémoires de Mirabeau_, v. 307.

123 (return)
Marat, _Ami-du-Peuple_ Newspaper (in _Histoire Parlementaire_, ii.
103), &c.

124 (return)
_Deux Amis de la Liberté_, i. 141.

125 (return)
Lacretelle, 18me _Siècle_, ii. 155.

126 (return)
Besenval, iii. 385, &c.

127 (return)
Besenval, iii. 385-8.

128 (return)
_Evènemens qui se sont passés sous mes yeux pendant la Révolution
Française_, par A. H. Dampmartin (Berlin, 1799), i. 25-27.

129 (return)
Besenval, iii. 389.

130 (return)
Madame de Staël, _Considérations sur la Révolution Française_ (London,
1818), i. 114-191.

131 (return)
_Founders of the French Republic_ (London, 1798), § Valadi.

132 (return)
See De Staël, _Considérations_ (ii. 142); Barbaroux, _Mémoires_, &c.

133 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, i. 335.

134 (return)
_Actes des Apôtres_ (by Peltier and others); _Almanach du Père Gérard_
(by Collot d’Herbois) &c. &c.

135 (return)
_Moniteur_ Newspaper, of December 1st, 1789 (in _Histoire
Parlementaire_).

136 (return)
Bouillé, _Mémoires sur la Révolution Française_ (London, 1797), i. 68.

137 (return)
Dumont, _Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_, p. 64.

138 (return)
A.D. 1834.

139 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ i. 322-27.

140 (return)
Mercier, _Nouveau Paris._

141 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_ (i. 356). Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, &c.

142 (return)
Reported Debates, 6th May to 1st June, 1789 in _Histoire
Parlementaire_, i. 379-422.

143 (return)
_Moniteur_ (in _Histoire Parlementaire_, i. 405).

144 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, i. 429.

145 (return)
Arthur Young, _Travels_, i. 104.

146 (return)
Bailly, _Mémoires_, i. 114.

147 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, i. 413.

148 (return)
Debates, 1st to 17th June 1789 (in _Histoire Parlementaire_, i.
422-478).

149 (return)
Bailly, _Mémoires_, i. 185-206.

150 (return)
See Arthur Young (_Travels_, i. 115-118); A. Lameth, &c.

151 (return)
Dumont, _Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_, c. 4.

152 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, i. 13.

153 (return)
_Moniteur_ (_Hist. Parl._ ii. 22.).

154 (return)
Montgaillard, ii. 38.

155 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, ii. 26.

156 (return)
Bailly, i. 217.

157 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, ii. 23.

158 (return)
Montgaillard, ii. 47.

159 (return)
Arthur Young, i. 119.

160 (return)
A. Lameth, _Assemblée Constituante_, i. 41.

161 (return)
Besenval, iii. 398.

162 (return)
Mercier, _Tableau de Paris_, vi. 22.

163 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire._

164 (return)
_Dictionnaire des Hommes Marquans_, Londres (Paris), 1800, ii. 198.

165 (return)
Besenval, iii. 394-6.

166 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, ii. 32.

167 (return)
Dusaulx, _Prise de la Bastille_ (_Collection des Mémoires_, par
Berville et Barrière, Paris, 1821), p. 269.

168 (return)
_Avis au Peuple, ou les Ministres dévoilés_, 1st July, 1789 in
_Histoire Parlementaire_, ii. 37.

169 (return)
Besenval, iii. 411.

170 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, ii. 81.

171 (return)
Ibid.

172 (return)
_Vieux Cordelier_, par Camille Desmoulins, No. 5 (reprinted in
_Collection des Mémoires_, par Baudouin Frères, Paris, 1825), p. 81.

173 (return)
Weber, ii. 75-91.

174 (return)
_Deux Amis_, i. 267-306.

175 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, ii. 96.

176 (return)
Dusaulx, _Prise de la Bastille_, p. 20.

177 (return)
See Lameth; Ferrieres, &c.

178 (return)
_Deux Amis de la Liberté_, i. 312.

179 (return)
Fils Adoptif, _Mirabeau_, vi. l. 1.

180 (return)
Besenval, iii. 414.

181 (return)
_Tableaux de la Révolution, Prise de la Bastille_ (a folio Collection
of Pictures and Portraits, with letter-press, not always
uninstructive,—part of it said to be by Chamfort).

182 (return)
_Deux Amis_, i. 302.

183 (return)
Besenval, iii. 416.

184 (return)
Fauchet’s _Narrative_ (_Deux Amis_, i. 324.).

185 (return)
_Deux Amis_ (i. 319); Dusaulx, &c.

186 (return)
_Histoire de la Révolution_, par Deux Amis de la Liberté, i. 267-306;
Besenval, iii. 410-434; Dusaulx, _Prise de la Bastille_, 291-301.
Bailly, _Mémoires_ (_Collection de Berville et Barrière_), i. 322 et
seqq.

187 (return)
_Dated_, à la Bastille, 7 Octobre, 1752; _signed_ Queret-Demery.
_Bastille Dévoilée_, in Linguet, _Mémoires sur la Bastille_ (Paris,
1821), p. 199.

188 (return)
Dusaulx.

189 (return)
_Biographie Universelle_, § Moreau Saint-Méry (by Fournier-Pescay).

190 (return)
Weber, ii. 126.

191 (return)
Campan, ii. 46-64.

192 (return)
Toulongeon, (i. 95); Weber, &c. &c.

193 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, ii. 146-9.

194 (return)
_Deux Amis de la Liberté,_ ii. 60-6.

195 (return)
“_Il a volé le Roi et la France_ (He robbed the King and France).” “He
devoured the substance of the People.” “He was the slave of the rich,
and the tyrant of the poor.” “He drank the blood of the widow and
orphan.” “He betrayed his country.” See _Deux Amis_, ii. 67-73.

196 (return)
Dumont, _Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_, p. 305.

197 (return)
Dulaure: _Histoire de Paris_, viii. 434.

198 (return)
Moniteur: _Séance du Samedi_ 18 _Juillet_ 1789 in _Histoire
Parlementaire_, ii. 137.

199 (return)
Dusaulx: _Prise de la Bastille_, p. 447, &c.

200 (return)
Arthur Young, i. 111.

201 (return)
_Biographie Universelle_, § D’Espréménil (by Beaulieu).

202 (return)
_Dictionnaire des Hommes Marquans_, ii. 519.

203 (return)
_Moniteur_, No. 67 (in _Hist.Parl._).

204 (return)
See Toulongeon, i. c. 3.

205 (return)
Dumont, _Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_, p. 255.

206 (return)
See Dumont (pp. 159-67); Arthur Young, &c.

207 (return)
Besenval, iii. 419.

208 (return)
Arthur Young, i. 165.

209 (return)
A.D. 1835.

210 (return)
Montgaillard, ii. 108.

211 (return)
Arthur Young, i. 129, &c.

212 (return)
Fils Adoptif: _Mémoires de Mirabeau_, i. 364-394.

213 (return)
See Arthur Young, i. 137, 150, &c.

214 (return)
Ibid. i. 134.

215 (return)
See _Hist. Parl._ ii. 243-6.

216 (return)
See Young, i. 149, &c.

217 (return)
Arthur Young, i. 12, 48, 84, &c.

218 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ ii. 161.

219 (return)
Arthur Young, i. 141.—Dampmartin: _Evénemens qui se sont passés sous
mes yeux_, i. 105-127.

220 (return)
_Biographie Universelle_, § Necker (by Lally-Tollendal).

221 (return)
Gibbon’s _Letters._

222 (return)
Young, i. 176.

223 (return)
See _Hist. Parl._ iii. 20; Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, &c.

224 (return)
See Bailly, _Mémoires_, ii. 137-409.

225 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ ii. 421.

226 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, ii. 359, 417, 423.

227 (return)
_Histoire Parlementaire_, ii. 427.

228 (return)
_Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_, p. 156.

229 (return)
_Révolutions de Paris Newspaper_ (cited in _Histoire Parlementaire_,
ii. 357).

230 (return)
_Brouillon de Lettre de M. d’Estaing à la Reine_ in _Histoire
Parlementaire_, iii. 24.

231 (return)
_Moniteur_ (in _Histoire Parlementaire_, iii. 59); _Deux Amis_ (iii.
128-141); Campan (ii. 70-85), &c. &c.

232 (return)
Camille’s Newspaper, _Révolutions de Paris et de Brabant_ in _Histoire
Parlementaire_, iii. 108.

233 (return)
_Deux Amis_, iii. 141-166.

234 (return)
Dusaulx, _Prise de la Bastille_ (note, p. 281.).

235 (return)
_Deux Amis_, iii. 157.

236 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ iii. 310.

237 (return)
_Deux Amis_, iii. 159.

238 (return)
Ibid. iii. 177; _Dictionnaire des Hommes Marquans_, ii. 379.

239 (return)
_Deux Amis_, iii. 161.

240 (return)
_Deux Amis_, iii. 165.

241 (return)
See _Hist. Parl._ iii. 70-117; _Deux Amis_, iii. 166-177, &c.

242 (return)
Mounier, _Exposé Justificatif_ (cited in _Deux Amis_, iii. 185).

243 (return)
See Weber, ii. 185-231.

244 (return)
_Deux Amis_, iii. 192-201.

245 (return)
Weber, ubi supra.

246 (return)
Weber, _Deux Amis_, &c.

247 (return)
_Moniteur_ (in _Hist. Parl._ ii. 105).

248 (return)
_Deux Amis_, iii. 208.

249 (return)
_Courier de Provence_ (Mirabeau’s Newspaper), No. 50, p. 19.

250 (return)
_Mémoire de M. le Comte de Lally-Tollendal_ (Janvier 1790), p. 161-165.

251 (return)
_Déposition de Lecointre_ (in _Hist. Parl._ iii. 111-115.)

252 (return)
Campan, ii. 75-87.

253 (return)
Toulongeon, i. 144.

254 (return)
Toulongeon, 1 App. 120.

255 (return)
Calumnious rumour, current long since, in loose vehicles (_Edinburgh
Review_ on _Mémoires de Bastille_, for example), concerning Friedrich
Wilhelm and his ways, then so mysterious and miraculous to many;—not
the least truth in it! (_Note of_ 1858.)

256 (return)
_Rapport de Chabroud_ (_Moniteur_, du 31 December, 1789).

257 (return)
Toulongeon, i. 150.

258 (return)
Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, iii. 21.

259 (return)
Toulongeon, i. 134-161; _Deux Amis_ (iii. c. 9); &c. &c.

260 (return)
Arthur Young’s _Travels_, i. 264-280.

261 (return)
_Deux Amis_, iii. c. 10.

262 (return)
_Le Château des Tuileries, ou récit, &c._, par Roussel (in _Hist.
Parl._ iv. 195-219).

263 (return)
_Moniteur_, Nos. 65, 86 (29th September, 7th November, 1789).

264 (return)
Dumont, _Souvenirs_, p. 278.

265 (return)
Dampmartin, _Evénemens_, i. 208.

266 (return)
See _Deux Amis_, iii. c. 14; iv. c. 2, 3, 4, 7, 9, 14. _Expédition des
Volontaires de Brest sur Lannion; Les Lyonnais Sauveurs des Dauphinois;
Massacre au Mans; Troubles du Maine_ (Pamphlets and Excerpts, in _Hist.
Parl._ iii. 251; iv. 162-168), &c.

267 (return)
See _Deux Amis_, iv. c. 14, 7; _Hist. Parl._ vi. 384.

268 (return)
_Mémoires de Barbaroux_ (Paris, 1822), p. 57.

269 (return)
21st October, 1789 (_Moniteur_, No. 76).

270 (return)
Buzot, _Mémoires_ (Paris, 1823), p. 90.

271 (return)
Dumouriez, _Mémoires_, i. 28, &c.

272 (return)
Dumont, _Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_, p. 399.

273 (return)
A trustworthy gentleman writes to me, three years ago, with a feeling
which I cannot but respect, that his Father, “the late Admiral Nesham”
(not _Needham_, as the French Journalists give it) is the Englishman
meant; and furthermore that the sword is “not rusted at all,” but still
lies, with the due memory attached to it, in his (the son’s)
possession, at Plymouth, in a clear state. (_Note of_ 1857.)

274 (return)
_Moniteur_, 10 Novembre, 7 Decembre, 1789.

275 (return)
De Pauw, _Recherches sur les Grecs_, &c.

276 (return)
Naigeon: _Addresse à l’Assemblée Nationale_ (Paris, 1790) _sur la
liberté des opinions._

277 (return)
See Marmontel, _Mémoires_, passim; Morellet, _Mémoires_, &c.

278 (return)
Hannah More’s _Life and Correspondence_, ii. c. 5.

279 (return)
De Staal: _Mémoires_ (Paris, 1821), i. 169-280.

280 (return)
Dumont: _Souvenirs_, 6.

281 (return)
See Bertrand-Moleville: _Mémoires_, ii. 100, &c.

282 (return)
Dulaure, _Histoire de Paris_, viii. 483; Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, &c.

283 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ vi. 334.

284 (return)
See Bertrand-Moleville, i. 241, &c.

285 (return)
Newspapers in _Hist. Parl._ iv. 445.

286 (return)
_Deux Amis_, v. c. 7.

287 (return)
See _Deux Amis_, v. 199.

288 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ vii. 4.

289 (return)
Reports, &c. (in _Hist. Parl._ ix. 122-147).

290 (return)
Madame Roland, _Mémoires_, i.(Discours Préliminaire, p. 23).

291 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xii. 274.

292 (return)
See _Deux Amis_, v. 122; _Hist. Parl._ &c.

293 (return)
_Moniteur_, &c. (in _Hist. Parl._ xii. 283).

294 (return)
_Deux Amis_, iv. iii.

295 (return)
23rd December, 1789 (Newspapers in _Hist. Parl._ iv. 44).

296 (return)
See Newspapers, &c. (in _Hist. Parl._ vi. 381-406).

297 (return)
Mercier. ii. 76, &c.

298 (return)
Mercier, ii. 81.

299 (return)
Narrative by a Lorraine Federate (given in _Hist. Parl._ vi. 389-91).

300 (return)
_Deux Amis_, v. 168.

301 (return)
_Deux Amis_, v. 143-179.

302 (return)
See his _Lettre au Peuple Français_, London, 1786.

303 (return)
Dampmartin, Evénemens, i. 144-184.

304 (return)
Dulaure, _Histoire de Paris_, viii. 25.

305 (return)
Bouillé, _Mémoires_ (London, 1797), i. c. 8.

306 (return)
See Newspapers of July, 1789 (in _Hist. Parl._ ii. 35), &c.

307 (return)
Dampmartin, _Evénemens_, i. 89.

308 (return)
Dampmartin, _Evénemens_, i. 122-146.

309 (return)
Norvins, _Histoire de Napoléon_, i. 47; Las Cases, _Mémoires_
translated into Hazlitt’s _Life of Napoleon_, i. 23-31.

310 (return)
_Moniteur_, 1790. No. 233.

311 (return)
Bouillé, _Mémoires_, i. 113.

312 (return)
Bouillé, i. 140-5.

313 (return)
_Moniteur_ (in _Hist. Parl._ vii. 29).

314 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 9 Août 1790.

315 (return)
_Deux Amis_, v. 217.

316 (return)
Bouillé, i. c. 9.

317 (return)
_Deux Amis_, v. c. 8.

318 (return)
_Deux Amis_, v. 206-251; Newspapers and Documents in _Hist. Parl._ vii.
59-162.

319 (return)
Compare Bouillé, _Mémoires_, i. 153-176; _Deux Amis_, v. 251-271;
_Hist. Parl._ ubi supra.

320 (return)
_Deux Amis_, v. 268.

321 (return)
Bouillé, i. 175.

322 (return)
_Ami du Peuple_ in _Hist. Parl._, ubi supra.

323 (return)
Knox’s _History of the Reformation,_ b. i.

324 (return)
See Dampmartin, i. 249, &c. &c.

325 (return)
Dampmartin, _passim_.

326 (return)
Mercier, iii. 163.

327 (return)
See _Hist. Parl._ vii. 51.

328 (return)
_Ami du Peuple_, No. 306. See other Excerpts in _Hist. Parl._ viii.
139-149, 428-433; ix. 85-93, &c.

329 (return)
Dampmartin, i. 184.

330 (return)
_De Bello Gallico_, lib. iv. 5.

331 (return)
See Brissot, _Patriote-Français_ Newspaper; Fauchet, _Bouche-de-Fer_,
&c. (excerpted in _Hist. Parl._ viii., ix., et seqq.).

332 (return)
Camille’s Journal (in _Hist. Parl._ ix. 366-85).

333 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 21 Août, 1790.

334 (return)
_Révolutions de Paris_ (in _Hist. Parl._ viii. 440).

335 (return)
See _Hist. Parl._ vii. 316; Bertrand-Moleville, &c.

336 (return)
Campan, ii. 105.

337 (return)
Campan, ii. 199-201.

338 (return)
Dampmartin, ii. 129.

339 (return)
Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, iii. 204.

340 (return)
Campan, ii. c. 17.

341 (return)
Dumont, p. 211.

342 (return)
_Correspondence Secrète_ (in _Hist. Parl._ viii. 169-73).

343 (return)
Carra’s Newspaper, 1st Feb. 1791 (in _Hist. Parl._ ix. 39).

344 (return)
Campan, ii. 132.

345 (return)
Montgaillard, ii. 282; _Deux Amis_, vi. c. 1.

346 (return)
Montgaillard, ii. 285.

347 (return)
_Deux Amis_, vi. 11-15; Newspapers (in _Hist. Parl._ ix. 111-17).

348 (return)
Weber, ii. 286.

349 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ ix. 139-48.

350 (return)
Montgaillard, ii. 286.

351 (return)
See Mercier, ii. 40, 202.

352 (return)
Ordonnance du 17 Mars 1791 (_Hist. Parl._ ix. 257).

353 (return)
See _Fils Adoptif_, vii. 1. 6; Dumont, c. 11, 12, 14.

354 (return)
_Fils Adoptif_, ubi supra.

355 (return)
Dumont, p. 311.

356 (return)
Dumont, p. 267.

357 (return)
_Fils Adoptif_, viii. 420-79.

358 (return)
_Fils Adoptif_, viii. 450; _Journal de la maladie et de la mort de
Mirabeau_, par P.J.G. Cabanis (Paris, 1803).

359 (return)
Hénault, _Abrégé Chronologique_, p. 429.

360 (return)
_Fils Adoptif_, viii. l. 10; Newspapers and Excerpts (in _Hist. Parl._
ix. 366-402).

361 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ ix. 405.

362 (return)
_Moniteur_, du 13 Juillet 1791.

363 (return)
_Moniteur_, du 18 Septembre, 1794. See also du 30 Août, &c. 1791.

364 (return)
Dumont, p. 287.

365 (return)
Toulongeon, i. 262.

366 (return)
Newspapers of April and June, 1791 (in _Hist. Parl._ ix. 449; x, 217).

367 (return)
_Deux Amis_, vi. c. 1; _Hist. Parl._ ix. 407-14.

368 (return)
_Deux Amis_, v. 410-21; Dumouriez, ii. c. 5.

369 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ x. 99-102.

370 (return)
Campan, ii. c. 18.

371 (return)
Bouillé, _Mémoires_, ii. c. 10.

372 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 23 Avril, 1791.

373 (return)
Choiseul, _Relation du Départ de Louis XVI._ (Paris, 1822), p. 39.

374 (return)
Campan, ii. 141.

375 (return)
Weber, ii. 340-2; Choiseul, p. 44-56.

376 (return)
Hénault, _Abrégé Chronologique_, p. 36.

377 (return)
_Deux Amis_, vi. 67-178; Toulongeon, ii. 1-38; Camille, Prudhomme and
Editors in _Hist. Parl._ x. 240-4.

378 (return)
_Walpoliana._

379 (return)
Dumont, c. 16.

380 (return)
Dumouriez, _Mémoires_, ii. 109.

381 (return)
Madame Roland, ii. 70.

382 (return)
_Moniteur_, &c. in _Hist. Parl._ x. 244-253.

383 (return)
_Déclaration du Sieur La Gache du Régiment Royal-Dragoons_ in Choiseul,
pp. 125-39.

384 (return)
_Rapport de M. Remy_ in Choiseul, p. 143.

385 (return)
_Déclaration de La Gache_ (in Choiseul, ubi supra).

386 (return)
_Déclaration de La Gache_ (in Choiseul, p. 134).

387 (return)
Campan, ii. 159.

388 (return)
_Procès-verbal du Directoire de Clermont_ (in Choiseul, p. 189-95).

389 (return)
_Deux Amis_, vi. 139-78.

390 (return)
_Rapport de M. Aubriot_ (in Choiseul, p. 150-7).

391 (return)
_Extrait d’un Rapport de M. Deslons_ (in Choiseul, p. 164-7).

392 (return)
Bouillé, ii. 74-6.

393 (return)
_Déclaration du Sieur Thomas_ (in Choiseul, p. 188).

394 (return)
Weber, ii. 386.

395 (return)
Aubriot, ut supra, p. 158.

396 (return)
_Nouveau Paris_, iii. 22.

397 (return)
Campan, ii. c. 18.

398 (return)
Ibid. ii. 149.

399 (return)
Bouillé, ii. 101.

400 (return)
Madame Roland, ii. 74.

401 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xi. 104-7.

402 (return)
Ibid. xi. 113, &c.

403 (return)
Toulongeon, ii. 56, 59.

404 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xiii. 73.

405 (return)
De Staël, _Considérations_, i. c. 23.

406 (return)
_Choix de Rapports_, &c. (Paris, 1825), vi. 239-317.

407 (return)
_Moniteur_ (in _Hist. Parl._ xi. 473).

408 (return)
Dumouriez, ii. 150, &c.

409 (return)
Dumouriez, ii. 370.

410 (return)
_Choix de Rapports_, xi. 25.

411 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 4 Octobre 1791.

412 (return)
Montgaillard, iii. 1. 237.

413 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 6 Juillet 1792.

414 (return)
Dampmartin, _Evénemens_, i. 267.

415 (return)
Barbaroux, Mémoires, p. 26.

416 (return)
Lescène Desmaisons, _Compte rendu à l’Assemblée Nationale_, 10
Septembre 1791 (_Choix des Rapports_, vii. 273-93).

417 (return)
_Procès-verbal de la Commune d’Avignon_, &c. in _Hist. Parl._ xii.
419-23.

418 (return)
Ugo Foscolo, _Essay on Petrarch_, p. 35.

419 (return)
Dampmartin, i. 251-94.

420 (return)
Dampmartin, ubi supra.

421 (return)
_Deux Amis_ vii. (Paris, 1797), pp. 59-71.

422 (return)
Barbaroux, p. 21; _Hist. Parl._ xiii. 421-4.

423 (return)
Dumont, _Souvenirs_, p. 374.

424 (return)
Dumouriez, ii. 129.

425 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xii. 131, 141; xiii. 114, 417.

426 (return)
_Deux Amis_, x. 157.

427 (return)
_Débats des Jacobins_, &c. _Hist. Parl._ xiii. 171, 92-98.

428 (return)
Campan, ii. 177-202.

429 (return)
Bertrand-Moleville, i. c. 4.

430 (return)
Moleville, i. 370.

431 (return)
Ibid. i. c. 17.

432 (return)
Montgaillard, iii. 41.

433 (return)
Bertrand-Moleville, i. 177.

434 (return)
Toulongeon, i. 256.

435 (return)
30th March 1792 (_Annual Register_, p. 11).

436 (return)
Toulongeon, ii. 100-117.

437 (return)
Montgaillard, iii. 517; Toulongeon, (ubi supra).

438 (return)
See _Hist. Parl._ xiii. 11-38, 41-61, 358, &c.

439 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 2 Novembre 1791 (_Hist. Parl._ xii. 212).

440 (return)
_Ami du Roi_ Newspaper in _Hist. Parl._ xiii. 175.

441 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 23 Janvier, 1792; _Biographie des Ministres_ §
Narbonne.

442 (return)
Dumouriez, ii. c. 6.

443 (return)
Dampmartin, i. 201.

444 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 15 Juillet 1792.

445 (return)
Newspapers, &c. in _Hist. Parl._ xiii. 325.

446 (return)
December 1791 (_Hist. Parl._ xii. 257).

447 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 28 Mai 1792; Campan, ii. 196.

448 (return)
Dumouriez, ii. 168.

449 (return)
Campan, ii. c. 19.

450 (return)
_Moniteur_, du 7 Avril 1792; _Deux Amis_, vii. 111.

451 (return)
See _Moniteur_, Séances in _Hist. Parl._ xiii. xiv.

452 (return)
Dumouriez, ii. 137.

453 (return)
16th February 1792 (_Choix des Rapports_, viii. 375-92).

454 (return)
_Courrier de Paris_, 14 Janvier, 1792 (Gorsas’s Newspaper), in _Hist.
Parl._ xiii. 83.

455 (return)
_Discours de Bailly, Réponse de Pétion_ (_Moniteur_ du 20 Novembre
1791).

456 (return)
Barbaroux, p. 94.

457 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 29 Mars, 1792.

458 (return)
Toulongeon, ii. 124.

459 (return)
_Débats des Jacobins_ (_Hist. Parl._ xiii. 259, &c.).

460 (return)
Dumont, c. 20, 21.

461 (return)
Madame Roland, ii. 80-115.

462 (return)
_Deux Amis_, vii. 146-66.

463 (return)
Dumont, c. 19, 21.

464 (return)
Newspapers of February, March, April, 1792; Iambe d’André Chénier _sur
la Fête des Suisses;_ &c., &c. in _Hist. Parl._ xiii, xiv.

465 (return)
_Patriote-Français_ (Brissot’s Newspaper), in _Hist. Parl._ xiii. 451.

466 (return)
Toulongeon, ii. 149.

467 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 10 Juin 1792.

468 (return)
_Débats des Jacobins_ (in _Hist. Parl._ xiv. 429).

469 (return)
Madame Roland, ii. 115.

470 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 18 Juin 1792.

471 (return)
Barbaroux, p. 40.

472 (return)
Rœderer, &c. &c. in _Hist. Parl._ xv. 98-194.

473 (return)
Toulongeon, ii. 173; Campan, ii. c. 20.

474 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 28 Juin 1792.

475 (return)
_Débats des Jacobins_ (_Hist. Parl._ xv. 235).

476 (return)
Toulongeon, ii. 180. See also Dampmartin, ii. 161.

477 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xvi. 259.

478 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du Juillet 1792.

479 (return)
Dumouriez, ii. 1, 5.

480 (return)
Dampmartin, ii. 183.

481 (return)
See Barbaroux, _Mémoires_ (Note in p. 40, 41).

482 (return)
Dampmartin, ubi supra.—As to Dampmartin himself and what became of him
farther, see _Mémoires de la Comtesse de Lichtenau_, écrits par elle
même; traduits de A’llemand (à Londres 1809), i. 200-7; ii. 78-91.

483 (return)
A.D. 1836.

484 (return)
Campan, ii. c. 20; De Staël, ii. c. 7.

485 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 21 Juillet 1792.

486 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xvi. 185.

487 (return)
_Tableau de la Révolution_, § Patrie en Danger.

488 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 25 Juillet 1792.

489 (return)
_Annual Register_ (1792), p. 236.

490 (return)
Barbaroux, p. 60.

491 (return)
Newspapers, Narratives and Documents (_Hist. Parl._ xv. 240; xvi. 399).

492 (return)
_Deux Amis_, viii. 90-101.

493 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xvi. 196. See Barbaroux, p. 51-5.

494 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séances du 30, du 31 Juillet 1792 (_Hist. Parl._ xvi.
197-210).

495 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xvi. 337-9.

496 (return)
Bertrand-Moleville, _Mémoires_, ii. 129.

497 (return)
_Deux Amis_, viii. 129-88.

498 (return)
Rœderer à la Barre, (Séance du 9 Août in _Hist. Parl._ xvi. 393).

499 (return)
Rœderer, _Chronique de Cinquante Jours: Récit de Pétion_. Townhall
Records, &c. in _Hist. Parl._ xvi. 399-466.

500 (return)
Rœderer, ubi supra.

501 (return)
24th August, 1572.

502 (return)
Section Documents, Townhall Documents, (_Hist. Parl._ ubi supra).

503 (return)
Rœderer, ubi supra.

504 (return)
in Toulongeon, ii. 241.

505 (return)
_Deux Amis_, viii. 179-88.

506 (return)
See _Hist. Parl._ (xvii. 56); Las Cases, &c.

507 (return)
Moore, _Journal during a Residence in France_ (Dublin, 1793), i. 26.

508 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ ubi supra. _Rapport du Captaine des Canonniers, Rapport
du Commandant_, &c. (Ibid. xvii. 300-18).

509 (return)
Campan, ii. c. 21.

510 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 10 Août 1792.

511 (return)
Montgaillard. ii. 135-167.

512 (return)
Moore’s _Journal_, i. 85.

513 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xvii. 467.

514 (return)
Ibid. xvii. 437.

515 (return)
_Mémoires de Buzot_ (Paris, 1823), p. 88.

516 (return)
Moore’s _Journal_, i. 159-168.

517 (return)
See Toulongeon, _Hist. de France._ ii. c. 5.

518 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xvii. 148.

519 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xix. 300.

520 (return)
De Staël, _Considérations sur la Révolution_, ii. 67-81.

521 (return)
Beaumarchais’ Narrative, _Mémoires sur les Prisons_ (Paris, 1823), i.
179-90.

522 (return)
Dumouriez, _Mémoires_, ii. 383.

523 (return)
Helen Maria Williams, _Letters from France_ (London, 1791-93), iii. 96.

524 (return)
Dumouriez, ii. 391.

525 (return)
Moore, i. 178.

526 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xvii. 409.

527 (return)
_Biographie des Ministres_ (Bruxelles, 1826), p. 96.

528 (return)
_Moniteur_ (in _Hist. Parl._ xvii. 347).

529 (return)
Félémhesi (anagram for Méhée Fils), _La Verité tout entière, sur les
vrais auteurs de la journée du 2 Septembre_ 1792 (reprinted in _Hist.
Parl._ xviii. 156-181), p. 167.

530 (return)
Félémhesi, _La Verité tout entière_ (ut supra), p. 173.

531 (return)
Moore’s _Journal_, i. 185-195.

532 (return)
Dulaure: _Esquisses Historiques des principaux événemens de la
Révolution_, ii. 206 (cited in Montgaillard, iii. 205.

533 (return)
Bertrand-Moleville, _Mém. Particuliers_, ii.213, &c. &c.

534 (return)
Jourgniac Saint-Méard, _Mon Agonie de Trente-huit heures_ (reprinted in
_Hist. Parl._ xviii. 103-135).

535 (return)
Maton de la Varenne, _Ma Résurrection_ (in _Hist. Parl._ xviii.
135-156).

536 (return)
Abbé Sicard, _Relation adressée à un de ses amis_ (in _Hist. Parl._
xviii. 98-103).

537 (return)
_Mon Agonie_ (ut supra, _Hist. Parl._ xviii. 128).

538 (return)
_Moniteur_, Debate of 2nd September, 1792.

539 (return)
Méhée Fils (ut supra, in _Hist. Parl._ xviii. p. 189).

540 (return)
Montgaillard, iii. 191.

541 (return)
Helen Maria Williams, iii. 27.

542 (return)
See _Hist. Parl._ xvii. 421, 422.

543 (return)
_Moniteur_ of 6th November, Debate of 5th November, 1793.

544 (return)
_Etat des sommes payées par la Commune de Paris_ (_Hist. Parl._ xviii.
231).

545 (return)
Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, vi. 21.

546 (return)
9th to 13th September, 1572 (Dulaure, _Hist. de Paris_, iv. 289).

547 (return)
Dulaure, iii. 494.

548 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xvii. 433.

549 (return)
Ibid. xvii. 434.

550 (return)
_Pièces officielles relatives au massacre des Prisonniers à Versailles_
(in _Hist. Parl._ xviii. 236-249).

551 (return)
_Biographie des Ministres_, p. 97.

552 (return)
Ibid. p. 103.

553 (return)
_Dictionnaire des Hommes Marquans_, § Barras.

554 (return)
Bertrand-Moleville, _Mémoires_, ii. 225.

555 (return)
See Helen Maria Williams. _Letters_, iii. 79-81.

556 (return)
Dumouriez, _Mémoires_, iii. 29.

557 (return)
Dumouriez, _Mémoires_, iii. 55.

558 (return)
Helen Maria Williams, iii. 32.

559 (return)
Goethe, _Campagne in Frankreich_ (_Werke_, xxx. 73.

560 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xix. 177.

561 (return)
Goethe, xxx. 49.

562 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xix. 19.

563 (return)
Williams, iii. 71.

564 (return)
1st October, 1792; Dumouriez, iii. 73.

565 (return)
_Bombardement de Lille_ (in _Hist. Parl._ xx. 63-71).

566 (return)
_Campagne in Frankreich_, p. 103.

567 (return)
See _Hermann und Dorothea_ (also by Goethe), Buch _Kalliope_.

568 (return)
_Campagne in Frankreich_, Goethe’s _Werke_ (Stuttgart, 1829), xxx.
133-137.

569 (return)
_Campagne in Frankreich_, Goethe’s _Werke_, xxx. 152.

570 (return)
Ibid. 210-12.

571 (return)
Dumouriez, iii. 115.—Marat’s account, In the _Débats des Jacobins_ and
_Journal de la République_ (_Hist. Parl._ xix. 317-21), agrees to the
turning on the heel, but strives to interpret it differently.

572 (return)
Johann Georg Forster’s _Briefwechsel_ (Leipzig, 1829), i. 88.

573 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xx. 184.

574 (return)
_Moniteur_ Newspaper, Nos. 271, 280, 294, Annee premiere; Moore’s
_Journal_, ii. 21, 157, &c. (which, however, may perhaps, as in similar
cases, be only a copy of the Newspaper).

575 (return)
_Moniteur_, ut supra; Séance du 25 Septembre.

576 (return)
Madame Roland, _Mémoires_, ii. 237, &c.

577 (return)
_Dictionnaire des Hommes Marquans_, § Chambon.

578 (return)
_Moniteur_ (in _Hist. Parl._ xx. 412).

579 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xx. 431-440.

580 (return)
Ibid. 409.

581 (return)
Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_.

582 (return)
Moore, i. 123; ii. 224, &c.

583 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 21 Septembre, An 1er (1792).

584 (return)
Moore’s _Journal_, ii. 165.

585 (return)
Dumouriez, _Mémoires_, iii. 174.

586 (return)
Moore, ii. 148.

587 (return)
Louvet, _Mémoires_ (Paris, 1823) p. 52; _Moniteur_ (Séances du 29
Octobre, 5 Novembre, 1792); Moore (ii. 178), &c.

588 (return)
See _Hist. Parl._ xvii. 401; Newspapers by Gorsas and others (cited
_ibid._ 428).

589 (return)
_Journal des Débats des Jacobins_ in _Hist. Parl._ xxii. 296.

590 (return)
Prudhomme’s Newspaper in _Hist. Parl._ xxi. 314.

591 (return)
See Extracts from their Newspapers, in _Hist. Parl._ xxi. 1-38, &c.

592 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 14 Décembre 1792.

593 (return)
Mrs. Hannah More, _Letter to Jacob Dupont_ (London, 1793); &c. &c.

594 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xxii. 131; Moore, &c.

595 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xxiii. 31, 48, &c.

596 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 7 Decembre 1792.

597 (return)
Dumouriez, _Mémoires_, iii. c. 4.

598 (return)
Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, vi. 156-59; Montgaillard, iii. 348-87; Moore,
&c.

599 (return)
_Moniteur_ in _Hist. Parl._ xxiii. 210. See Boissy d’Anglas, _Vie de
Malesherbes_, ii. 139.

600 (return)
_Biographie des Ministres_, p. 157.

601 (return)
See Prudhomme’s Newspaper, _Révolutions de Paris_ in _Hist. Parl._
xxiii. 318.

602 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xxiii. 275, 318; Félix Lepelletier, _Vie de Michel
Lepelletier son Frère_, p. 61. &c. Félix, with due love of the
miraculous, will have it that the Suicide in the inn was not Paris, but
some _double-ganger_ of his.

603 (return)
Cléry’s _Narrative_ (London, 1798), cited in Weber, iii. 312.

604 (return)
Newspapers, Municipal Records, &c. &c. in _Hist. Parl._ xxiii. 298-349;
_Deux Amis_, ix. 369-373; Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, iii. 3-8.

605 (return)
His Letter in the Newspapers (_Hist. Parl._ ubi supra).

606 (return)
Forster’s _Briefwechsel_, i. 473.

607 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ ubi supra.

608 (return)
_Annual Register_ of 1793, pp. 114-128.

609 (return)
23d March, _Annual Register_, p. 161.

610 (return)
1st February; 7th March, Moniteur of these dates.

611 (return)
_Moniteur_ &c. _Hist. Parl._ xxiv. 332-348.

612 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xxiv. 353-356.

613 (return)
Dumouriez, _Mémoires_, iii. 314.

614 (return)
_Moniteur_, 1793, No. 140, &c.

615 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xxv. 25, &c.

616 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xxiv. 385-93; xxvi. 229, &c.

617 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 20 Mai 1793.

618 (return)
Genlis, _Mémoires_ (London, 1825), iv. 118.

619 (return)
_Mémoires de Meillan, Représentant du Peuple_ (Paris, 1823), p. 51.

620 (return)
Dumouriez, iv. 16-73.

621 (return)
Forster’s _Briefwechsel_, ii. 514, 460, 631.

622 (return)
See Dampmartin, _Evénemens_, ii. 213-30.

623 (return)
_Moniteur_ in _Hist. Parl._ xxv. 6.

624 (return)
_Choix des Rapports_, xi. 277.

625 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xxv. 72.

626 (return)
Louvet, _Mémoires_, p. 72.

627 (return)
Meillan, pp. 23, 24; Louvet, pp. 71-80.

628 (return)
_Moniteur_ (Séance du 12 Mars), 15 Mars.

629 (return)
Meillan, _Mémoires_, pp. 85, 24.

630 (return)
_Moniteur_, No. 70, (du 11 Mars), No. 76, &c.

631 (return)
_Moniteur_, No. 83 (du 24 Mars 1793), Nos. 86, 98, 99, 100.

632 (return)
_Moniteur_, du 20 Avril, &c. to 20 Mai, 1793.

633 (return)
Dumouriez, _Mémoires_, iv. c. 7-10.

634 (return)
Genlis, iv. 139.

635 (return)
Dumouriez, iv. 159, &c.

636 (return)
Their Narrative, written by Camus in Toulongeon, iii. app. 60-87.

637 (return)
_Mémoires_, iv. 162-180.

638 (return)
See Montgaillard, iv. 144.

639 (return)
_Mémoires de Réné Levasseur_ (Bruxelles, 1830), i. 164.

640 (return)
Séance du 1er Avril, 1793 in _Hist. Parl._ xxv. 24-35.

641 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ xv. 397.

642 (return)
_Moniteur_, du 16 Avril 1793, et seqq.

643 (return)
Séance du 26 Avril, An 1er (in _Moniteur_, No. 116).

644 (return)
Levasseur, _Mémoires_, i. c. 6.

645 (return)
Buzot, _Mémoires_, pp. 69, 84; Meillan, _Mémoires_, pp. 192, 195, 196.
See _Commission des Douze_ in _Choix des Rapports_, xii. 69-131.

646 (return)
_Deux Amis_, vii. 77-80; Forster, i. 514; Moore, i. 70. She did not die
till 1817; in the Salpêtrière, in the most abject state of insanity;
see Esquirol, _Des Maladies Mentales_ (Paris, 1838), i. 445-50.

647 (return)
Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, vi. 63.

648 (return)
See _Histoire des Brissotins_, par Camille Desmoulins, a Pamphlet of
Camille’s, Paris, 1793.

649 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 25 Mai, 1793.

650 (return)
Meillan, _Mémoires_, p. 195; Buzot, pp. 69, 84.

651 (return)
_Debats de la Convention_ (Paris, 1828), iv. 187-223; _Moniteur_, Nos.
152, 3, 4, An 1er.

652 (return)
Louvet, _Mémoires_, p. 89.

653 (return)
Buzot, _Mémoires_, p. 310. See _Pièces Justificatives_, of Narratives,
Commentaries, &c. in Buzot, Louvet, Meillan: _Documens
Complémentaires_, in _Hist. Parl._ xxviii. 1-78.

654 (return)
Meillan, p. 72, 73; Louvet, p. 129.

655 (return)
_Belagerung von Mainz_, Goethe’s _Werke_, xxx. 278-334.

656 (return)
Meillan, p.75; Louvet, p. 114.

657 (return)
_Moniteur_, Nos. 197, 198, 199; _Hist. Parl._ xxviii. 301-5; _Deux
Amis_, x. 368-374.

658 (return)
See _Eloge funèbre de Jean-Paul Marat_, prononcé à Strasbourg in
Barbaroux, p. 125-131; Mercier, &c.

659 (return)
Séance du 16 Septembre 1793.

660 (return)
_Procès de Charlotte Corday_, &c. _Hist. Parl._ xxviii. 311-338.

661 (return)
_Deux Amis_, x. 374-384.

662 (return)
_Briefwechsel_, i. 508.

663 (return)
See Hazlitt, ii. 529-41.

664 (return)
Barbaroux, p. 29.

665 (return)
_Deux Amis_, x. 345.

666 (return)
_Mémoires de Puisaye_ (London, 1803), ii. 142-67.

667 (return)
Louvet, pp. 101-37; Meillan, pp. 81, 241-70.

668 (return)
Meillan, pp. 119-137.

669 (return)
Louvet, pp. 138-164.

670 (return)
_Belagerung von Maintz_, Goethe’s _Werke_, xxx. 315.

671 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xi. 73.

672 (return)
_Choix des Rapports_, xii. 432-42.

673 (return)
      September 22nd of 1792 is Vendémiaire 1st of Year One, and the
      new months are all of 30 days each; therefore:

     To the number of the          We have the number of the
     day in                 Add    day in                  Days

     Vendémiaire         21        September                30
     Brumaire            21        October                  31
     Frimaire            20        November                 30

     Nivose              20        December                 31
     Pluviose            19        January                  31
     Ventose             18        February                 28

     Germinal            20        March                    31
     Floréal             19        April                    30
     Prairial            19        May                      31

     Messidor            18        June                     30
     Thermidor           18        July                     31
     Fructidor           17        August                   31

      There are 5 Sansculottides, and in leap-year a sixth, to be added
      at the end of Fructidor. Romme’s first Leap-year is ‘_An_
      4’(1795, not 1796), which is another troublesome circumstance,
      every fourth year, from “September 23d” round to “February 29”
      again.

      The New Calendar ceased on the 1st of January 1806. See _Choix
      des Rapports_, xiii. 83-99; xix. 199.

674 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xi. 147; xiii. 160-92, &c.

675 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xi. 80-143.

676 (return)
Louvet, p. 180-199.

677 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 5 Septembre, 1793.

678 (return)
_Débats_, Séance du 23 Août 1793.

679 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 17 Septembre 1793.

680 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séances du 5, 9, 11 Septembre.

681 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xi. 148-188.

682 (return)
See _Mémoires particuliers de la Captivité à la Tour du Temple_, by the
Duchesse d’Angoulême, Paris, 21 Janvier 1817.

683 (return)
_Procès de la Reine_ (_Deux Amis_, xi. 251-381).

684 (return)
Vilate, _Causes secrètes de la Révolution de Thermidor_ (Paris, 1825),
p. 179.

685 (return)
Weber, i. 6.

686 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xi. 301.

687 (return)
Δημοσθένους εἰπόντος, Ἀποκτενοῦδί σε Ἀθηναῖοι, φωκίων˙ Ἀν μανῶσιν, εῖτε
σὲ δ’, ἐὰν σαφρονῶσι.—Plut. _Opp_. t. iv. p. 310. ed. Reiske, 1776.

688 (return)
_Mémoires de Riouffe_ in _Mémoires sur les Prisons_, Paris, 1823, p.
48-55.

689 (return)
Louvet, p. 213.

690 (return)
_Recherches Historiques sur les Girondins_ in _Mémoires de Buzot_, p.
107.

691 (return)
_Hist. Parl._ Introd., i. 1 et seqq.

692 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xii. 78.

693 (return)
Mercier. ii. 124.

694 (return)
_Moniteur_ of these months, passim.

695 (return)
Foster, ii. 628; Montgaillard, iv. 141-57.

696 (return)
_Mémoires_ (_Sur les Prisons_, i.), pp. 55-7.

697 (return)
_Mémoires de Madame Roland_ (Introd.), i. 68.

698 (return)
Vie de Bailly in _Mémoires_, i., p. 29.

699 (return)
_Mémoires de Madame Roland_ (Introd.), i. 88.

700 (return)
Foster, ii. 629.

701 (return)
_Moniteur_, 11 Decembre, 30 Decembre, 1793; Louvet, p. 287.

702 (return)
See Louvet, p. 301.

703 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xii. 249-51.

704 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xi. 145.

705 (return)
_Moniteur_ (du 17 Novembre 1793), &c.

706 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xii. 251-62.

707 (return)
_Moniteur_, 1793, Nos. 101 (31 Decembre), 95, 96, 98, &c.

708 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xii. 266-72; _Moniteur_, du 2 Janvier 1794.

709 (return)
_Procès de Carrier_, 4 tomes, Paris, 1795.

710 (return)
_Les Horreures des Prisons d’Arras_, Paris, 1823.

711 (return)
Montgaillard, iv. 200.

712 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 17 Brumaire (7th November), 1793.

713 (return)
_Analyse du Moniteur_ (Paris, 1801), ii. 280.

714 (return)
Mercier, iv. 134. See _Moniteur_, Séance du 10 Novembre.

715 (return)
See also _Moniteur_, Séance du 26 Novembre.

716 (return)
Mercier, iv. 127-146.

717 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xii. 62-5.

718 (return)
_Débats_, du 10 Novembre, 1723.

719 (return)
_Dictionnaire des Hommes Marquans_, i. 115.

720 (return)
_Moniteur_, du 27 Novembre 1793.

721 (return)
_Choix des Rapports_, xiii. 189.

722 (return)
Ibid. xv. 360.

723 (return)
There is, in _Prudhomme_, an atrocity _à la_ Captain-Kirk reported of
this Cavaignac; which has been copied into Dictionaries of _Hommes
Marquans_, of _Biographie Universelle_, &c.; which not only has no
truth in it, but, much more singular, is still capable of being proved
to have none.

724 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xiii. 205-30; Toulongeon, &c.

725 (return)
Levasseur, _Mémoires_, ii. c. 2-7.

726 (return)
His narrative in _Deux Amis_, xiv. 177-86.

727 (return)
Compare Barrère (_Chois des Rapports_, xiv. 416-21); Lord Howe (_Annual
Register_ of 1794, p. 86), &c.

728 (return)
Carlyle’s _Miscellanies_, § Sinking of the Vengeur.

729 (return)
_Chois des Rapports_, xv. 378, 384.

730 (return)
26th June, 1794, (see _Rapport de Guyton-Morveau sur les Aérostats_, in
_Moniteur_ du 6 Vendémiaire, An 2).

731 (return)
Mercier, v. 25; _Deux Amis_, xii. 142-199.

732 (return)
See _Deux Amis_, xv. 189-192; _Mémoires de Genlis; Founders of the
French Republic_, &c. &c.

733 (return)
Mercier, ii. 134.

734 (return)
Montgaillard, iv. 290.

735 (return)
_Moniteur_, du 17 Ventose (7th March) 1794.

736 (return)
_Biographie de Ministres_, § Danton.

737 (return)
_Aperçus sur Camille Desmoulins_ in _Vieux Cordelier_, Paris, 1825, pp.
1-29.

738 (return)
Montgaillard, iv. 200.

739 (return)
Duchesse d’Angoulême, _Captivité à la Tour du Temple_, pp. 37-71.

740 (return)
_Tribunal Révolutionnaire_, du 8 Mai 1794, _Moniteur_, No. 231.

741 (return)
_Tableaux de la Révolution_, § Soupers Fraternels; Mercier, ii. 150.

742 (return)
Riouffe, p. 73; _Deux Amis_, xii. 298-302.

743 (return)
Vilate, _Causes Secrètes de la Révolution de_ 9 _Thermidor_.

744 (return)
See Vilate, _Causes Secrètes_. (Vilate’s Narrative is very curious; but
is not to be taken as true, without sifting; being, at bottom, in spite
of its title, not a Narrative but a Pleading).

745 (return)
Montgaillard, iv. 237.

746 (return)
_Maison d’Arrêt de Port-Libre_, par Coittant, &c. _Mémoires sur les
Prisons_, ii.

747 (return)
Montgaillard, iv. 218; Riouffe, p. 273.

748 (return)
_Voyage de Cent Trente-deux Nantais_, (_Prisons_, ii. 288-335).

749 (return)
_Relation de ce qu’ont souffert pour la Religion les Prêtres déportés
en 1794, dans la rade de l’île d’Aix_, (_Prisons_, ii. 387-485).

750 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xii. 347-73.

751 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xii. 350-8.

752 (return)
See Vilate.

753 (return)
_Moniteur_, Nos. 311, 312; _Débats_, iv. 421-42; _Deux Amis_, xii.
390-411.

754 (return)
_Précis des Evénemens du Neuf Thermidor_, par C.A. Méda, ancien
Gendarme, Paris, 1825.

755 (return)
Mémoires sur les Prisons, ii. 277.

756 (return)
Méda. p. 384. (Méda asserts that it was he who, with infinite courage,
though in a lefthanded manner, shot Robespierre. Méda got promoted for
his services of this night; and died General and Baron. Few credited
Méda (in what was otherwise incredible).

757 (return)
24th December 1794, _Moniteur_, No. 97.

758 (return)
October 1795, Dulaure, viii. 454-6.

759 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xiii. 3-39.

760 (return)
Mercier, _Nouveau Paris_, iii. 138, 153.

761 (return)
Montgaillard, iv. 436-42.

762 (return)
Montgaillard, Mercier, (ubi supra).

763 (return)
De Staël, _Considérations_ iii. c. 10, &c.

764 (return)
Toulongeon, iii. c. 7; v. c. 10, p. 194.

765 (return)
19th January, 1795, Montgaillard, iv. 287-311.

766 (return)
5th April, 1795, Montgaillard, iv. 319.

767 (return)
_Histoire de la Guerre de la Vendée_, par M. le Comte de Vauban,
_Mémoires de Madame de la Rochejacquelin_, &c.

768 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xiv. 94-106; Puisaye, _Mémoires_, iii-vii.

769 (return)
_Moniteur_, du 25 Septembre 1794, du 4 Février 1795.

770 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séances du 10-12 Novembre 1794: _Deux Amis_, xiii. 43-49.

771 (return)
Mercier, ii. 94. (“1st February, 1796: at the Bourse of Paris, the gold
louis,” of 20 francs in silver, “costs 5,300 francs in assignats.”
Montgaillard, iv. 419).

772 (return)
Fantin Desodoards, _Histoire de la Révolution_, vii. c. 4.

773 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 13 Germinal (2d April) 1795.

774 (return)
_Moniteur_, du 27 Juin, du 31 Août, 1795; _Deux Amis_, xiii. 121-9.

775 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xiii. 129-46.

776 (return)
Toulongeon, v. 297; _Moniteur_, Nos. 244, 5, 6.

777 (return)
_Dictionnaire des Hommes Marquans_, §§ Billaud, Collot.

778 (return)
Montgaillard, iv. 241.

779 (return)
_Report of the Irish Poor-Law Commission_, 1836.

780 (return)
_Nouveau Paris_, iv. 118.

781 (return)
Napoleon, Las Cases, _Choix des Rapports_, xvii. 398-411.

782 (return)
_Deux Amis_, xiii. 375-406.

783 (return)
_Moniteur_, Séance du 5 Octobre 1795.

784 (return)
_Moniteur_, du 4 Septembre 1797.

785 (return)
9th November 1799, _Choix des Rapports_, xvii. 1-96.

786 (return)
Bailleul, _Examen critique des Considérations de Madame de Staël_, ii.
275.

787 (return)
_Diamond Necklace_, (Carlyle’s _Miscellanies_).