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 a 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 Petion, Buzot, Curate Gregoire, Rabaut, some three score Old-Constituents; though we once had only ’thirty voices.’  All these; and along with them, friends long known