See, accordingly, how after Decree passed, and what has been called ’the scraggiest Prophetic Discourse ever uttered by man,’—­Mahomet Robespierre, in sky-blue coat and black breeches, frizzled and powdered to perfection, bearing in his hand a bouquet of flowers and wheat-ears, issues proudly from the Convention Hall; Convention following him, yet, as is remarked, with an interval.  Amphitheatre has been raised, or at least Monticule or Elevation; hideous Statues of Atheism, Anarchy and such like, thanks to Heaven and Painter David, strike abhorrence into the heart.  Unluckily however, our Monticule is too small.  On the top of it not half of us can stand; wherefore there arises indecent shoving, nay treasonous irreverent growling.  Peace, thou Bourdon de l’Oise; peace, or it may be worse for thee!

The seagreen Pontiff takes a torch, Painter David handing it; mouths some other froth-rant of vocables, which happily one cannot hear; strides resolutely forward, in sight of expectant France; sets his torch to Atheism and Company, which are but made of pasteboard steeped in turpentine.  They burn up rapidly; and, from within, there rises ’by machinery’ an incombustible Statue of Wisdom, which, by ill hap, gets besmoked a little; but does stand there visible in as serene attitude as it can.

And then?  Why, then, there is other Processioning, scraggy Discoursing, and—­this is our Feast of the Etre Supreme; our new Religion, better or worse, is come!—­Look at it one moment, O Reader, not two.  The Shabbiest page of Human Annals:  or is there, that thou wottest of, one shabbier?  Mumbo-Jumbo of the African woods to me seems venerable beside this new Deity of Robespierre; for this is a conscious Mumbo-Jumbo, and knows that he is machinery.  O seagreen Prophet, unhappiest of windbags blown nigh to bursting, what distracted Chimera among realities are thou growing to!  This then, this common pitch-link for artificial fireworks of turpentine and pasteboard; this is the miraculous Aaron’s Rod thou wilt stretch over a hag-ridden hell-ridden France, and bid her plagues cease?  Vanish, thou and it!—­“Avec ton Etre Supreme,” said Billaud, “tu commences m’embeter:  With thy Etre Supreme thou beginnest to be a bore to me.” (See Vilate, Causes Secretes.  Vilate’s Narrative is very curious; but is not to be taken as true, without sifting; being, at bottom, in spite of its title, not a Narrative but a Pleading.)

Catherine Theot, on the other hand, ’an ancient serving-maid seventy-nine years of age,’ inured to Prophecy and the Bastille from of old, sits, in an upper room in the Rue-de-Contrescarpe, poring over the Book of Revelations, with an eye to Robespierre; finds that this astonishing thrice-potent Maximilien really is the Man spoken of by Prophets, who is to make the Earth young again.  With her sit devout old Marchionesses, ci-devant honourable women; among whom Old-Constituent Dom Gerle, with his addle head, cannot be wanting.  They sit there, in the Rue-de-Contrescarpe; in mysterious adoration:  Mumbo is Mumbo, and Robespierre is his Prophet.  A conspicuous man this Robespierre.  He has his volunteer Bodyguard of Tappe-durs, let us say Strike-sharps, fierce Patriots with feruled sticks; and Jacobins kissing the hem of his garment.  He enjoys the admiration of many, the worship of some; and is well worth the wonder of one and all.