And out of doors,’ continues the exaggerative man, ’were mad multitudes dancing round the bonfire of Chapel-balustrades, of Priests’ and Canons’ stalls; and the dancers, I exaggerate nothing, the dancers nigh bare of breeches, neck and breast naked, stockings down, went whirling and spinning, like those Dust-vortexes, forerunners of Tempest and Destruction.’ (Mercier, iv. 127-146.) At Saint-Gervais Church again there was a terrible ‘smell of herrings;’ Section or Municipality having provided no food, no condiment, but left it to chance.  Other mysteries, seemingly of a Cabiric or even Paphian character, we heave under the Veil, which appropriately stretches itself ’along the pillars of the aisles,’—­not to be lifted aside by the hand of History.

But there is one thing we should like almost better to understand than any other:  what Reason herself thought of it, all the while.  What articulate words poor Mrs. Momoro, for example, uttered; when she had become ungoddessed again, and the Bibliopolist and she sat quiet at home, at supper?  For he was an earnest man, Bookseller Momoro; and had notions of Agrarian Law.  Mrs. Momoro, it is admitted, made one of the best Goddesses of Reason; though her teeth were a little defective.  And now if the reader will represent to himself that such visible Adoration of Reason went on ‘all over the Republic,’ through these November and December weeks, till the Church woodwork was burnt out, and the business otherwise completed, he will feel sufficiently what an adoring Republic it was, and without reluctance quit this part of the subject.

Such gifts of Church-spoil are chiefly the work of the Armee Revolutionnaire; raised, as we said, some time ago.  It is an Army with portable guillotine:  commanded by Playwright Ronsin in terrible moustachioes; and even by some uncertain shadow of Usher Maillard, the old Bastille Hero, Leader of the Menads, September Man in Grey!  Clerk Vincent of the War-Office, one of Pache’s old Clerks, ’with a head heated by the ancient orators,’ had a main hand in the appointments, at least in the staff-appointments.

But of the marchings and retreatings of these Six Thousand no Xenophon exists.  Nothing, but an inarticulate hum, of cursing and sooty frenzy, surviving dubious in the memory of ages!  They scour the country round Paris; seeking Prisoners; raising Requisitions; seeing that Edicts are executed, that the Farmers have thrashed sufficiently; lowering Church-bells or metallic Virgins.  Detachments shoot forth dim, towards remote parts of France; nay new Provincial Revolutionary Armies rise dim, here and there, as Carrier’s Company of Marat, as Tallien’s Bourdeaux Troop; like sympathetic clouds in an atmosphere all electric.  Ronsin, they say, admitted, in candid moments, that his troops were the elixir of the Rascality of the Earth.  One sees them drawn up in market-places; travel-plashed, rough-bearded, in carmagnole complete:  the first exploit is