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.—­