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 transcendental; 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.