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!’ (Arthur Young, i. 12, 48, 84, &c.) 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 Oeil-de-Boeuf, 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 women 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 Chateau and them with gunpowder; and instantaneously vanished, no man yet knows whither. (Hist.  Parl. ii. 161.) Some half dozen years after, he came back; and demonstrated that it was by accident.