what his Grace and his trustees have still suffered to stand of that foolish royalist, Inigo Jones, in Covent Garden.  Churches, play-houses, coffeehouses, all alike, are destined to be mingled, and equalized, and blended into one common rubbish,—­and, well sifted, and lixiviated, to crystallize into true, democratic, explosive, insurrectionary nitre.  Their Academy del Cimento, (per antiphrasin,) with Morveau and Hassenfratz at its head, have computed that the brave sans-culottes may make war on all the aristocracy of Europe for a twelvemonth out of the rubbish of the Duke of Bedford’s buildings.[21]

While the Morveaux and Priestleys are proceeding with these experiments upon the Duke of Bedford’s houses, the Sieyes, and the rest of the analytical legislators and constitution-venders, are quite as busy in their trade of decomposing organization, in forming his Grace’s vassals into primary assemblies, national guards, first, second, and third requisitioners, committees of research, conductors of the travelling guillotine, judges of revolutionary tribunals, legislative hangmen, supervisors of domiciliary visitation, exactors of forced loans, and assessors of the maximum.

The din of all this smithery may some time or other possibly wake this noble Duke, and push him to an endeavor to save some little matter from their experimental philosophy.  If he pleads his grants from the crown, he is ruined at the outset.  If he pleads he has received them from the pillage of superstitious corporations, this indeed will stagger them a little, because they are enemies to all corporations and to all religion.  However, they will soon recover themselves, and will tell his Grace, or his learned council, that all such property belongs to the nation,—­and that it would be more wise for him, if he wishes to live the natural term of a citizen, (that is, according to Condorcet’s calculation, six months on an average,) not to pass for an usurper upon the national property.  This is what the serjeants-at-law of the rights of man will say to the puny apprentices of the common law of England.

Is the genius of philosophy not yet known?  You may as well think the garden of the Tuileries was well protected with the cords of ribbon insultingly stretched by the National Assembly to keep the sovereign canaille from intruding on the retirement of the poor King of the French as that such flimsy cobwebs will stand between the savages of the Revolution and their natural prey.  Deep philosophers are no triflers; brave sans-culottes are no formalists.  They will no more regard a Marquis of Tavistock than an Abbot of Tavistock; the Lord of Woburn will not be more respectable in their eyes than the Prior of Woburn; they will make no difference between the superior of a Covent Garden of nuns and of a Covent Garden of another description.  They will not care a rush whether his coat is long or short,—­whether the color be purple, or blue and buff.  They will not trouble their heads with what part of his head his hair is out from; and they will look with equal respect on a tonsure and a crop.  Their only question will be that of their Legendre, or some oilier of their legislative butchers:  How he cuts up; how he tallows in the caul or on the kidneys.