It was long before I could disentangle individual voices from the wild chaos of strident theories that surrounded me.  But at last there was silence, as one bilious-looking vellum book, old enough to have known better, had evidently caught the ear of the assembled multitudes; and then I understood that the movement had already found its Robespierre.  It was clear from his words that the universal gospel of equality, so beautifully expatiated upon before the revolution, had had reference only to those who were already on an equality of that low estate which fears no fall.  The only equality now offered to books above the rank of octavo was that of death, which, philosophers have long assured us, makes all men equal, by a short and simple method.  There was but one other way—­that the quartos should consent to be cut in two, and the folios quartered; but that, alas! meant death no less, for that which alone is of worth in both books and men, the soul, would be no more.  So, as it seemed they must die either way, all the condemned chose death before dishonour.  Several distinguished folios who, in a quixotism of heart, had flirted with the socialistic leaders when their schemes were but propaganda, and equality had not yet been so rigorously defined, now bitterly repented their folly, and did their best in heading a rally against their foes.  That, however, was soon quelled, and but hastened their doom.

‘To the guillotine with them!’ cried the bilious little octavo, and then I saw that my tobacco-cutter had been extemporised into the deadly engine.

But, hereupon, a voice of humour found hearing, that of a stout 32mo, evidently a philosopher.

‘Why shed blood?’ he said, ’I have a better plan.  Stature is no mark of superiority, but usually the reverse.  The mind’s the standard of the man.  In the world of men the tallest and handsomest are made into servants, and called flunkies, and these wait upon the small men, who have all the money, which among men corresponds to brains among books.  Why shouldn’t we take a hint from this custom, and turn these tall gaudy gentlemen into our servants, for which all their gilt and fine clothes have already provided them with livery?  Ho!  Sirrah Folio, come and turn my page!’

But this Lord Folio haughtily refused to do, and, consequently, being too stout to turn his own pages, the little 32mo could say no more.  His proposal, though it tickled a few, found no great favour.  It was generally agreed that humour had no place in the discussion of a serious question.  Another speaker advocated the retention of the condemned as ornaments of the state, but he was very speedily overruled.  Was not that the shallow excuse by which they had hung on for ever so long?  No, that was quite worn out.