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  But the beginning of a man’s doom is that vision be withdrawn from him; that he see not the reality, but a false spectrum of the reality; and, following that, step darkly, with more or less velocity, downwards to the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. (Meillan, Memoires, pp. 85, 24.) 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.