did in Nature.  The chaotic Thunder-cloud, with its pitchy black, and its tumult of dazzling jagged fire, in a world all electric:  thou wilt not undertake to shew how that comported itself,—­what the secrets of its dark womb were; from what sources, with what specialities, the lightning it held did, in confused brightness of terror, strike forth, destructive and self-destructive, till it ended?  Like a Blackness naturally of Erebus, which by will of Providence had for once mounted itself into dominion and the Azure:  is not this properly the nature of Sansculottism consummating itself?  Of which Erebus Blackness be it enough to discern that this and the other dazzling fire-bolt, dazzling fire-torrent, does by small Volition and great Necessity, verily issue,—­in such and such succession; destructive so and so, self-destructive so and so:  till it end.

Royalism is extinct, ‘sunk,’ as they say, ‘in the mud of the Loire;’ Republicanism dominates without and within:  what, therefore, on the 15th day of March, 1794, is this?  Arrestment, sudden really as a bolt out of the Blue, has hit strange victims:  Hebert Pere Duchene, Bibliopolist Momoro, Clerk Vincent, General Ronsin; high Cordelier Patriots, redcapped Magistrates of Paris, Worshippers of Reason, Commanders of Revolutionary Army!  Eight short days ago, their Cordelier Club was loud, and louder than ever, with Patriot denunciations.  Hebert Pere Duchene had “held his tongue and his heart these two months, at sight of Moderates, Crypto-Aristocrats, Camilles, Scelerats in the Convention itself:  but could not do it any longer; would, if other remedy were not, invoke the Sacred right of Insurrection.”  So spake Hebert in Cordelier Session; with vivats, till the roofs rang again. (Moniteur, du 17 Ventose (7th March) 1794.) Eight short days ago; and now already!  They rub their eyes:  it is no dream; they find themselves in the Luxembourg.  Goose Gobel too; and they that burnt Churches!  Chaumette himself, potent Procureur, Agent National as they now call it, who could ’recognise the Suspect by the very face of them,’ he lingers but three days; on the third day he too is hurled in.  Most chopfallen, blue, enters the National Agent this Limbo whither he has sent so many.  Prisoners crowd round, jibing and jeering:  “Sublime National Agent,” says one, “in virtue of thy immortal Proclamation, lo there!  I am suspect, thou art suspect, he is suspect, we are suspect, ye are suspect, they are suspect!”

The meaning of these things?  Meaning!  It is a Plot; Plot of the most extensive ramifications; which, however, Barrere holds the threads of.  Such Church-burning and scandalous masquerades of Atheism, fit to make the Revolution odious:  where indeed could they originate but in the gold of Pitt?  Pitt indubitably, as Preternatural Insight will teach one, did hire this Faction of Enrages, to play their fantastic tricks; to roar in their Cordeliers Club about Moderatism; to print their Pere Duchene; worship skyblue Reason in red nightcap; rob all Altars,—­and bring the spoil to us!—­