ongresses, which have long sat;
which are of saturnine temperament; above all, which are not 'dreadfully
in earnest,' something may be computed or conjectured: yet even these
are a kind of Mystery in progress,--whereby we see the Journalist
Reporter find livelihood: even these jolt madly out of the ruts, from
time to time. How much more a poor National Convention, of French
vehemence; urged on at such velocity; without routine, without rut,
track or landmark; and dreadfully in earnest every man of them! It is
a Parliament literally such as there was never elsewhere in the world.
Themselves are new, unarranged; they are the Heart and presiding centre
of a France fallen wholly into maddest disarrangement. From all cities,
hamlets, from the utmost ends of this France with its Twenty-five
million vehement souls, thick-streaming influences storm in on that
same Heart, in the Salle de Manege, and storm out again: such fiery
venous-arterial circulation is the function of that Heart. Seven Hundred
and Forty-nine human individuals, we say, never sat together on Earth,
under more original circumstances. Common individuals most of them, or
not far from common; yet in virtue of the position they occupied, so
notable. How, in this wild piping of the whirlwind of human passions,
with death, victory, terror, valour, and all height and all depth
pealing and piping, these men, left to their own guidance, will speak
and act?

Readers know well that this French National Convention (quite contrary
to its own Program) became the astonishment and horror of mankind; a
kind of Apocalyptic Convention, or black Dream become real; concerning
which History seldom speaks except in the way of interjection: how it
covered France with woe, delusion, and delirium; and from its bosom
there went forth Death on the pale Horse. To hate this poor National
Convention is easy; to praise and love it has not been found impossible.
It is, as we say, a Parliament in the most original circumstances. To
us, in these pages, be it as a fuliginous fiery mystery, where Upper has
met Nether, and in such alternate glare and blackness of darkness poor
bedazzled mortals know not which is Upper, which is Nether; but rage
and plunge distractedly, as mortals, in that case, will do. A Convention
which has to consume itself, suicidally; and become dead ashes--with its
World! Behoves us, not to enter exploratively its dim embroiled deeps;
yet to stand with unwavering eyes, looki